


Aftermath

by BelfastDocks



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: 1920s, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Historical References, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Romance, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 94
Words: 124,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelfastDocks/pseuds/BelfastDocks
Summary: In the aftermath of WWI, life moves forward.Mary x Dickon, eventual Colin X Original CharacterMary/Dickon/Colin Friendship





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you begin:
> 
> 1) If you're a Colin/Mary shipper, then I'm afraid this is not the story for you. It's very much Dickon/Mary.
> 
> 2) If you dislike Colin, this isn't the story for you. I love all three characters and I prefer writing them as friends instead of rivals or enemies.
> 
> 3) This was originally planned as a "one-shot collection"; a place for me to post any additional one-shots I wrote in the same timeline as my story, On Leave from France. Instead, it morphed into an actual "story", albeit the chapters are short and can be a bit fractured, because I write them as I would one-shots. I like to explore ideas and thoughts more then a storyline. You don't have to read On Leave from France to read this story; they easily stand alone.
> 
> 4) I dislike writing stories without at least some attempt at a little historical accuracy. I'm not going to pretend I'm an expert on Edwardian Era England, WWI, the Jazz Era, or WWII. But I do read quite a bit of historical non-fiction just for kicks, and I do research before I write something historically based. I also have a few very intelligent, well-educated reviewers on FFN who occasionally help me out, and I am grateful to them for their technical advice and suggestions.
> 
> 5) I'm not a fan of OC's, but much to my surprise one of the characters I created to move the story along took over and eventually became a love interest for Colin, starting in the 30's chapter. If you dislike OC's, this may not be a good story for you, either.
> 
> All of that said, I hope those who asked will enjoy this, and I thank you for reading, reviewing, bookmarking, etc.
> 
> Originally posted on FFN in December 2010; ongoing story. I sort of write on it whenever inspiration strikes, but my Muse is horribly fickle and flits all over the place. Not to mention as of 2018, I'm also writing my master's thesis, which is sort of more important...
> 
> ~ BD

****

## Only the Beginning

****

He is acutely aware of both sound and smell. He needs no other senses save these two for the moment, for they tell him all he needs to know.

He can hear soft clinks at one end of the long ward: the sound of glass medicine bottles being moved on a bedside table. Across the aisle, someone shifts against the starched bed sheets and groans, and from two beds to his right comes a clenched whimper. The sharp clicks of a nurse's heels against the immaculate floor, and the swishing of her long skirt, follow these particular, though minuscule sounds. Then come the inevitable hushed whispers of inquiry, the sound of a lid being unscrewed from a glass bottle and the lip of the same touching a metal spoon. The swallow of pain medication and the gasp that accompanies the burning on the back of a wounded soldier's throat; then the bottle is replaced, and the clicking heels recede. From beyond the doors at the far end of the ward he can hear the faint murmur of male voices drifting in, while the wind makes a loose pane in one of the windows in the outside wall shiver against its frame. It must be cold, for it is late October, if he remembers rightly.

Worse are the smells. There is a strong hint of alcohol in the air, mixed with the searing scent of disinfectant; both tingle unpleasantly in his nostrils. And behind these two prominent, irritating odors is a truly horrific one: decaying flesh. Blood. Death.

God help him; he has smelled other things besides death, hasn't he?

_Heather._

_What does heather smell like?_

His brow furrows.

_Heather. Heather smells like..._

"Are you in pain, Sergeant?"

The voice is quiet and monotone, and he realizes that, in trying to remember a distant, past scent, he forgot to listen and missed the clicking heels against the tiles.

He shakes his head a fraction, and the clicking heels move away.

Maybe there was never anything called _heather_.

He sighs imperceptibly and resorts to listening again, because with the harsh smells and the sounds of pain, he cannot imagine anything wick.

Whether seconds or hours pass, he does not know – time does not exist here as it does in other places. Nurses and doctors come and go and that is how he marks time: by their shifts, the way the light darkens against his eyelids when it becomes night, and when someone comes to change his dressings or administer more pain medication.

And then, at some point, after he has been here for what seems like a century, he hears louder voices beyond the door.

One of these voices is causing some sort of commotion, for he can also hear the shifting of mattresses all about him as soldiers turn their heads towards the obvious argument, or sit up in bed in an attempt to see what is happening.

His eyes scrunch tighter as he listens harder, curious as to this change in the monotonous routine.

The voices cease, and the clicking heels come down the aisle, more brisk than usual. He hears a nurse quietly speak to a doctor standing at the foot of the bed to his left.

"...has a war telegram that was sent to the soldier's family. He claims he understands the gravity of the wards here, but insists he be admitted and allowed to collect the soldier to take him home. The soldier's family apparently does not have the funds available to travel to London personally."

"Release will depend entirely on the soldier," the doctor says in a low voice, though it is in a tone of the utmost superiority. "The majority of these men are not ready to be dismissed, Mrs. Tillbausch."

There is a rustle of paper, a moment of silence, and then a deep sigh.

"Very well, tell him to wear a mask. We do have several cases of influenza in the building, and it is highly contagious, no matter how we try to contain it to a separate ward."

The heels click away, and return a minute later accompanied by a second set of footsteps. The second set are firm and confident, as though they know exactly where they are going, and always have.

However, the doctor's greeting to this new person is cold.

"My nurse informs me that you are here to collect a wounded soldier," he says sternly. "And I understand you have a telegram alerting this soldier's family of his condition. However, as to whether I can release him to your care remains to be seen. I must be certain you would be able to tend to any residual wounds if he is ready for release. Furthermore, how you know the soldier and his family is also an issue."

There is no response to this speech, but a few more footsteps, which brings the newcomer to the foot of _his_ bed.

His?

"Tha's in a righ' state, Dickon Sowerby," says a sharp, arrogant voice, in broad Yorkshire. "Is tha going t' look at me, or am I going t' have to drag thee out o' bed? And don't think I won't do it, either. I don't care how many ribs and bones you've broken, or how nasty that inflected shrapnel wound is." Then, as an afterthought, the voice adds, "Good God, you'd think a hospital _this_ side of the channel would be a bit more sanitary. You'll lose that arm if something isn't done quickly, damn it."

So startled is he by this unexpected voice, that his eyes flash open, for it is too surprising for him to comprehend with only scent and sound.

At the foot of his bed stands a tall young man with tousled, thick hair, holding a mask to his face with one firm hand. His agate eyes glitter brightly in the dim light, and he looks ready to follow through with his threat of dragging a soldier out of bed, broken bones and infected wounds or not. And all about the room, soldiers are staring at the scene in startled surprise; a few are nudging each other and snickering under their breath at such presumptuous arrogance.

The doctor, however, is not nearly as amused.

"Now, see here, young man!" he says angrily. "You can't just come in here and –!"

"We've a long journey ahead of us," the impudent rajah announces in a cool voice, ignoring the doctor utterly and completely. "Get up, and I'll help thee dress."

He finally finds his voice, though it is hoarse from lack of use. "Where are we going?" he whispers.

"Honestly! Where do you _think_? France?" is the sarcastic response. "Yorkshire, of course. Now _get up_."

But behind the sarcasm and the order, he can see the crinkles around the rajah's eyes, indicating a smile. A smile that he has found his friend alive, and that he can now return an old favor that never needed returning in the first place.

For the first time by himself in two months, amidst the stabbing pain in his torso and his left arm, and the horrible memories replaying in his head, and the doctor and nurse protesting volubly against what he wishes to do, that he is too wounded to walk further than to the end of the ward and that his muscles are too weak, he struggles with gritted teeth until the blankets are thrown back and his feet touch the cold floor. He hisses at the intensity of pain. It is incredibly hard and he feels as though he may collapse at any second, but if Colin Craven was able to do it once, so shall he. Broken ribs or not.

And the entire while, the rajah watches from the foot of the bed, his eyes blazing with fierce pride.


	2. Jordan is a Hard Road to Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this chapter actually takes place before the first chapter.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Jordan is a Hard Road to Travel

****

She knows, the moment the butler enters the dining room with the silver letter tray, and stops beside her cousin, that something is wrong.

She cannot explain how she knows this. After all, her cousin receives letters from various people all of the time. But she knows that _this_ letter is different, that _this_ letter isn't from a school friend or a military friend or a family connection or a business prospect. And she tenses quite suddenly at the very thought, because instinctively, she knows that _this_ letter contains bad news.

He takes it with a polite "thank you", and the butler moves around to the head of the table to present her uncle's friend, Lord Willingham, with his post. But Mary keeps her eyes on Colin.

Her cousin looks surprised when he examines the return address, before he opens the envelope and pulls out two things: a war telegram, and a plain letter. Mary continues to stare at him, trying desperately not to shiver, and failing. When he finally finishes both, he glances up at her with a wary expression.

"It is bad news, isn't it?" she asks, as calmly as she is able. But beneath the linen tablecloth, her hands are clenched together to keep them from shaking. With the war raging across the Channel, and with _so many_ causalities, she has tried desperately to prepare herself for this possibility. _Without much success_ , she thinks bitterly. The way her blood has left her heart makes her feel cold and faint. It was never, _ever_ supposed to be this way. Never. She feels wretchedly sick and tries unsuccessfully to push the images of bullets and explosions and blood and death out of her head. Images of Dickon Sowerby holding a gun; his body being violently torn apart by shellfire.

Colin, however, says nothing, but offers the letter to her over the jam pot.

She is forced to remove one of her freezing hands from beneath the table, and she takes the letter without further comment.

It is written in the awkward fashion that most commoners possess, and not the elegant handwriting of the upper class. She recognizes the script, and immediately proceeds to read so fast that her heart starts to pound again, making her slender fingers tingle and her head ache, she must re-read to make certain she understands.

Partial relief floods her, and she looks anxiously up at Colin to discuss it further.

"It is not an unexpected change of events," he says, with an almost careless shrug. "But still, I must send a telegram to Father, detailing these new circumstances. And one to Mrs. Sowerby, of course."

"The cottage will be too small, though," she says, surprised to find that her voice isn't trembling; that she sounds like an educated young woman instead of a sour, sullen child. She sounds like a woman who knows what she must do now, despite the horror of the situation. "And besides that," she glances at the typed telegram, hating the way the letters have been stamped into the thick paper with no feeling or concern, "There is no indication of the exact injuries or illness. We need more information. And influenza is also rampant, Colin. Until we are certain _that_ is not a possibility, he cannot return to his family. We must make certain his mother understands that."

"Yes," her cousin agrees, slathering jam on a muffin. He takes things so much more in stride than she does, and she briefly hates him for it. He could show a _little_ concern! But then again, that is not Colin's way – he is all logic and fact, and rarely jumps to conclusions these days. After he takes a bite and swallows, he adds, "We cannot risk the others catching any sort of illness, and the cottage itself _is_ too cramped, however clean Mrs. Sowerby keeps it. No, he must be sent to Misselthwaite; there is nothing else for it."

Her eyes stray to the telegram again, re-reading it. "Winter is coming. We won't be able to open the windows."

"No, I suppose we can't. I'll have to think on that." His brow furrows slightly. "We also cannot allow Martha to tend to him, for if he does have some virus or infection, she might catch it and inadvertently pass it along to the rest of his family. One of the other maids will have to –"

"One of the other maids? Absolutely not! I shall do it!" Mary snaps fiercely.

At this, he puts his knife down on the plate with a sharp _clank_ , and gives her an exasperated look. "We can't have _you_ catching anything, _either_. You're as good as engaged to him!"

"Yes, so better me then anyone else," she retorts. "I escaped the cholera epidemic in India years ago, didn't I? Perhaps my defenses are better than most. But regardless, I _will_ have my way on this one, Colin. I won't have a maid tending to him!"

Colin glares at her. "Damn it all, you're impossible sometimes, Mary Lennox! I'm not certain that _you're_ the rajah in this family! You're as jealous as I once was!"

"Colin, Mary!" Lord Willingham's voice suddenly commands them to stop arguing, and when they glance towards the other end of the long, mahogany table, they discover that he, his wife, and their two young daughters are frowning at them.

Immediately, the two cousins fall silent; then, after a brief, tense moment, Colin says importantly, "We are sorry, sir. It was only a minor disagreement, I assure you. However, you will need to be aware that Mary and I have serious business to discuss, and I'm afraid within the week we will both need to return to Yorkshire."

Lord Willingham looks stunned at this bold remark, before he recovers and says sternly, "Your father entrusted the two of you to us, to see to your education and entrance into society. You cannot simply return to Yorkshire –"

Colin interrupts, though a bit more politely than before (perhaps upon seeing the irritation on his host's face). "Unfortunately, this is a serious matter that takes precedence over education or society. Mary," he adds, and his tone is a bit sarcastic, "Far be it from me to order you about, so I shall only say this as a _suggestion_. Mightn't it be a wise idea for you to retire to your rooms and pack your things for your return to Yorkshire? I shall inquire at Victoria as to the trains, to determine which will be the best one for you to take; then I shall send telegrams to Father and Mrs. Sowerby, explaining our decision, and requesting that father have the car ready to meet you up upon your arrival."

And, when she starts to protest, he adds sharply, "It will be easier for me to gain admittance into a war hospital, than you. But if you return to Misselthwaite in advance, then you may make the necessary preparations for our guest."

She purses her mouth and glares at him for a moment, before rising abruptly from the table and loftily replying, "Very _well_. I shall be in my room, if you require me. Lord Willingham, Lady Willingham. _Cousin_."

She sweeps away as Colin pushes his own chair back. But she is not quite to the stairs when she hears her uncle's friend complain, "I'll be damned if I know why Archibald sent them here in the first place, Helena. They are both too strong-minded and strong-willed, the pair of them! They will only ever do as they please, without heeding anything else!"

"Now, William..." his wife says consolingly. "Colin did say it was exceedingly important –"

"An exaggeration, I'm sure!"

Mary cannot help smiling vindictively as she mounts the grand stairs. Strong-minded and strong-willed, always doing as they please? She pauses just before the landing and glances down at the vestibule, where she finds Colin smirking up at her as the butler assists him with his coat.

Lord Willingham and his wife never quite understood them at all. Despite their high marks in their schooling, and their perfection of social graces, their host family has never quite grasped their real personalities.

For beneath the insolent exteriors which others are determined to see, are hearts of gold that drive those wills of iron in Mary Lennox and Colin Craven.


	3. Lady Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary has a discussion with her uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of stories out there that focus on Mary going to finishing school in London to learn how to be a lady, and marrying either 1) Colin or 2) some other rich original character. Which is fine! But what I wanted to explore in this story was something more realistic to the concept of "becoming a lady", and not just fancy dresses or finding a husband. But rather, the fact that, upper and middle class citizens make connections which they use later in life for finances, business transactions, etc., and how marrying beneath one's status can destroy those connections.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Lady Come Down

****

"But... Your education!"

She exhales in exasperation. This particular argument was not unforeseen, but it is still tedious. In as calm a voice as she can manage, she replies, "My education is complete, and rather unimportant now, Uncle. I have learned all I wish from London; specifically, I have learned that I never wish to leave Yorkshire again. Besides, there is little there these days to keep anyone in town, what with the war on."

"I understand all of that, and your final marks were excellent. I was quite proud of them. But... Well... Were there no young gentlemen in London...? That you... Found interesting?" His voice trails off; he is obviously embarrassed at asking her about her love life.

"Yes, there is one man," she consents, if only to see his expression at her words. "And Colin is bringing him home in two days time."

And, when Archibald Craven pales and looks more worried than usual, she rises from the comfortable leather club chair before his desk and paces his study like a caged animal, her skirts swirling elegantly about her. "Uncle, this is important to me. I dislike London! I dislike most of society I met there, for that matter! The past two years have been absolutely dreadful; were it not for Colin, I would have returned here much sooner, without the first thought to education _or_ position! I _ache_ to be in Yorkshire amongst my garden and the moor! I shall be eighteen next month, and –"

He cuts her off. "It is not a question of your age, Mary! But I do wish you would think of what you are giving up! There is much more to a position in society than just parties and balls or schooling. There are connections, Mary! Connections that will be lost as a result of such a decision!"

"Well, Colin shall keep those connections, should I require the use of them. Otherwise, all I am giving up is a sooty city that is undergoing great changes. Because the war _has_ changed things in London, Uncle. Nothing is the same these days. Not in _any_ of the social classes."

"Some things remain the same," he argues feebly.

"Well, yes. The garden shall never change," she admits, smiling when he sighs heavily at her response. "And Colin will always be a rajah, regardless of what else happens."

"What of your parents, Mary? I'm not certain they would wish you to give up the life you were born into!"

"I should think that their opinion matters very little," she replies shortly, for she does not wish to think about her parents. About a mother who didn't love or want her, and a father who was far too burdened with affairs of state and military to concern himself with a sullen little girl he claimed as his daughter. About two people who are dead and gone.

The next few seconds tick by in silence. She eventually returns to her chair before his desk and watches him closely. She and her uncle have become friends over the past few years, lapsing into an easy father-daughter relationship. Long gone is the time when she had been afraid to meet his eyes, when she had been ten years old and scared that he might take away her happiness. She is old enough to determine her own happiness, now.

And so, she reiterates quietly, "I shall stay in Yorkshire. And I shall marry Dickon, Uncle."

Archibald Craven looks miserable. "But, Mary. You don't even know what his injuries are. What if he has lost an arm, or a leg? What if he has lost his sight, or his face is completely disfigured by chemical attacks? Have you considered that he might be paralyzed, or have some other devastating injury? He may be unable to walk, to see, to have children, or to do any normal, daily activity!"

The cold sense of dread she has been experiencing more often than not lately begins to fill her rapidly, like water fills a glass, and she reminds herself to stay calm, to finish the conversation. "I have thought of all of that. I read the paper daily, much to Lord Willingham's irritation. And I have volunteered the past year at a veterans' home, helping with such cases. That, perhaps, was the only thing I enjoyed in London, I daresay. Helping the wounded soldiers. And I only did it because I wanted to prepare myself for any possibility with Dickon."

He closes his eyes as if in pain. "It should not be for a young lady to know such horrible tragedies, Mary. I wish you had not –"

"When you stop and think of it, I was prepared for such things from a young age, was I not? And besides; I enjoyed helping the soldiers."

"You should not have been prepared for anything of the sort. Had the cholera epidemic not swept through India, you wouldn't –"

"But it did. That is the way of things. There is no changing it, or even dwelling on what might have been otherwise."

Her uncle rises and paces to the fireplace. She can tell that she has almost worn him down, almost won their disagreement. But he still has a few attacks left, and after he stares into the flames for a few moments, he murmurs, "War injuries aside, he is a poor lad, however much I may like him, Mary."

"Good that I have a fortune of my own then," she replies indifferently.

"You could go through it easily and quickly, marrying so beneath your status."

"Not if I allow Colin to manage it properly. He has a talent for the right investments; all of his friends and acquaintances say so." Her temper is starting to fray, but she keeps her voice even as she rises to face him. "Apart from Dickon's social and financial status, are there any _other_ reasons you do not wish me to form an alliance with him?"

Her uncle sighs heavily at the ultimatum. "You know as well as anyone, Mary, that I am eternally grateful for what Dickon has done for this family. He saved you, he saved Colin... and indirectly, he saved me. He is a good lad, always steady... He's a hard worker, and kind to all those he meets." He sighs again and places a hand upon the mantle, as though to steady himself. "No. Apart from what you have said, I have nothing against him."

"Well, then. We have already touched on finances; Colin manages such things with extreme detail and caution that I have no fears regarding my welfare. And with the changes slowly taking place all over – ladies going to work in factories, the wealthy giving up their fancy country homes for smaller ones, giving up luxuries and finery... The upper class ladies helping in war hospitals and abroad, while the men become more frugal or join the military... Well, given all of that, I imagine that the social differences between myself and Dickon will eventually be completely unimportant."

" _You_ may not care, Mary – but the servants will talk such things over. And you know how I dislike that."

"Oh, really. The servants _always_ talk; they've nothing better to do. But two of our under gardeners have already been killed in the war, and one other has such severe injuries that he won't be able to return to work. Two others are fighting in France, one manservant is on the Eastern front and one is in the Navy. That's not even mentioning two older men and five of the women who have gone to work in ammunition factories for better pay. Nearly all of Misselthwaite is closed off because of staffing concerns! There aren't many people left to gossip about the marriage between a commoner and a lady."

Her uncle closes his eyes as if in pain; Mary wonders if he has been trying not to think of the drastic changes taking place across the world – even to the point that they are affecting his home in a small, seemingly insignificant portion of the country. If they continue to lose staff to the war effort, he may have to give up Misselthwaite all together, though Colin has resolutely stated that he would rather sell his father's town homes in order to keep the large country estate, if possible. The day is not far off when she knows her cousin will be taking over his father's finances entirely, for Archibald Craven is growing old, and has never been in good health. Perhaps the man knows this, as well. Perhaps that is why he is struggling so hard against everything, because he doesn't want to face a future so uncertain and so full of changes.

Finally, he asks in a low, tired voice, "Does Dickon wish to marry you, Mary?"

And, for the first time since she entered the study, she breaths more easily. "He did the last I saw him. If he has changed his mind, I know nothing of it. But I can't imagine Dickon wanting to be anywhere but here, in North Yorkshire. He hates London, and he hated fighting and seeing so much death. He _needs_ to be here to heal again. He helped us, and I am determined to help him, now."

Archibald Craven looks weary. "I suppose Willingham was right. You and Colin are both far too stubborn and strong-willed for anyone to sway you one way or the other."

"If I may say so, he never did understand us, Uncle. I felt sorry for him, in a way. Colin and I aren't easy house guests."

"I suppose I should write him a letter of apology," Lord Craven remarks a trifle sarcastically, as he turns back to his desk. "And while I do that, perhaps you should select the room you wish to become your hospital ward. You'll need to inform Medlock of your decision and deal with her directly; otherwise, she'll be in my study within minutes, raving at me that you should be in London, planning a marriage to a wealthy Lord or business magnate of some sort. My nerves can't handle her today, Mary. See that it doesn't happen, won't you?"

She smiles. She can handle Medlock. "Yes, Uncle. I'll see to it."

And, leaving him pouring a glass of brandy, she slips out into the hall to find the moody housekeeper and argue with her, for a while.


	4. One Toke Over the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon and Colin have a discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapter titles are song titles; this one is by Brewer & Shipley, released in 1970, and refers to smoking weed and waiting for a train.
> 
> In the original novel, Colin referred to himself as a "boy animal", and that concept surfaces in this sketch.
> 
> ~BD

****

## One Toke Over the Line

****

The platform bench is hard and uncomfortable, as he lies stretched out upon it on his back. The air is heavy with steam and smoke, making it difficult to breathe, and his body feels as though he's been beaten repeatedly with a two-tonne piece of artillery.

Actually, that's pretty much what happened, he thinks ruefully.

But he doesn't _want_ to remember. He wishes to God he could _forget_. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw in effort to try and push away the horrors in his head, as well as the pain that sears through his ribs and arm.

A whistle sounds shrilly and sharply to his left, and he focuses on that instead. He can hear the heavy pistons and the breath of steam and the six-foot drive wheels of another locomotive as it pulls into crowded Victoria Station. People are hurriedly moving around the platform to board, and he is reminded yet again of his dislike of the city. Too much bustle, too little attention to details.

And yet, at the same time, he is scared to return to Yorkshire.

So much has changed.

_He_ has changed.

He is exhausted to the core and still wounded, and he can feel a cold coming on in his lungs. He is hardly able to stand on his own two feet without Colin's help. He knows he couldn't have made it this far without his friend; a young man who is master of a great fortune, yet who still willingly carries a soldier's rucksack and keeps one arm under Dickon's, guiding him along without complaint, stopping to let him rest every few feet if he needs it, checking the bandages under his coat sleeve to make certain he doesn't start bleeding again. Colin, who somehow found him in that wretched hospital and is determined to get him back to Misselthwaite at any cost, without regard to what other people might say or think in reference to his actions.

He had argued at first, when they had originally left the hospital, though admittedly the attempt was feeble. He had told Colin that he could remain in the ward until he was completely healed, before returning to his mother's cottage, so that he wouldn't be a burden on anyone, let alone the Craven family. He'd also reminded Colin that important connections would likely talk ill of him for helping a commoner in such an odd fashion, not to mention a few of the servants at Misselthwaite who believed certain members of the Sowerby family were overly-favored.

But Colin, in his usual way, would have none of it.

With a careless shrug, he'd said, "Once, I cared what other people thought about me. But now, I don't. I shall do as I please, and to hell with anyone who thinks otherwise."

He'd further informed Dickon that a room had been prepared at the manor whether Dickon wanted it or not, and he would be cared for until his wounds had healed and he was healthy again.

_Healthy_. It is a word that goes beyond physical wounds, a word that includes mind and soul; not just body.

He certainly isn't healthy right now. He can scare believe how thin he is, how his uniform practically hangs off of him, how his muscles have lost strength in the short two months since he was wounded and subsequently discharged. His mind is also unhealthy, and perhaps that is the worst thing. He bitterly remembers once telling Mary, years ago, that Colin shouldn't think of dying, or things that would set him screaming. That he should think of living and getting well, so he could learn to walk again and be a healthy young boy, instead of an invalid.

Now, it is _he_ who thinks of such things as would set him screaming, if he does not clench his teeth and force his mouth to remain shut. And he cannot seem to make himself believe that if he thought of other things, _happy_ things, that he would be all right. It isn't that he hasn't tried, because he _has_. But how can such things exist anymore, with men killing other men in such destructive, inhuman ways? Whenever he tries to think of happiness, the images of the war seem to creep into the corners of his vision and threaten to engulf him. He has simply seen too much death; so much so that he would once have never thought such horrors were possible, back when he was a child. He wishes he could have remained as ignorant as he had been in those days, when the only death he was confronted with was finding a dead animal on the moor.

"We've another ten minutes before our train," Colin's voice says quietly beside him. "Are you all right?"

He takes a shuddering breath, which, against his ribs, feels as though it may well kill him. He stops short of wishing it would, but just barely.

"Aye, I s'ppose."

"Once we are back in Yorkshire, things will be better."

"The air'll be cleaner," he mutters, holding his ribs and wishing they wouldn't hurt so. "If nothing else."

When there is no response to this, he cracks one eye open and glances at his friend, and he cannot help but think how strange a sight the younger man presents. Colin Craven sits upon the train platform beside the bench, so that Dickon may have the entire length to rest upon. He is cross-legged, dressed in dark brown trousers, boots, and a heavy wool coat and cap, looking more like a commoner than a member of the privileged elite. He watches people getting off of trains and others boarding them; constantly alert, perfectly straight, his head turned slightly to listen as another train pulls the station.

Dickon smiles just slightly, for Colin reminds him of the trained military dogs in France, who carry messages to various points on the lines. He remembers how they would sit patiently, with their ears constantly pricked, listening for sounds of incoming planes or mortar fire. He had often found that he enjoyed watching these dogs (as much as he could enjoy anything about war), for he could tell more from an animal than by listening to the commanding officer. It had always been like that.

Colin turns to face him, and arches an eyebrow. "That's the first time I've seen you smile since I found you."

He suddenly realizes the muscles in his jaw actually _hurt_ from the action, and the smile fades; his expression becomes blank and curtained once more.

But Colin isn't fooled; he never is, it seems. "What were you thinking of?" he demands. His gray eyes are intense; he was and is always curious as to what other people are thinking, because he himself is a thinker.

Shifting and biting back a whimper of pain, he replies, "I was jus' thinkin' thy reminds me o' th' messenger dogs we used on th' lines. Always watchful and alert."

Colin's eyes light, and he chuckles. "I always said I was an animal, and not a boy. But I admit, a lot of it I learned from you. Listening, watching... that sort of thing. You taught me quite a bit, Dickon."

He sighs impatiently. "I jus' wish _I_ could remember what I taught thee."

"Once you're back in Yorkshire," he repeats again, "it will come back to you."

"And I wish I could believe thee."

"You will, eventually. I don't expect you to right away."

"I still wish thee'd take me to mother's. I'll burden thee otherwise."

"Hardly," Colin snorts. "No one could be a burden in a house with a hundred rooms, you know."

"But wha' o' thy schoolin'?"

"I've spoken with my professors and they've agreed to let me take a week's leave of absence. Then, for the rest of autumn term, until Christmas, Mary will tend to you by herself, and –"

" _Mary_?"

He nearly sits up in his shock, then yelps and hisses in pain at the motion, and collapses back on the bench again holding his ribs more tightly than before. He knows better than to move so quickly, but this time, he simply could not help it.

Colin gives him an exasperated, annoyed look for moving at all before it was necessary. " _Yes_ , Mary. She completed her schooling last May, and opted out of attending a university. She returned to Misselthwaite two days ago to prepare for your arrival there."

"But..."

He tries desperately to think of a way to put the turmoil of his thoughts into speech, without sounding rude or inconsiderate. He loves Mary, yet she is a lady who should not have to tend to a wounded soldier when her upbringing and lineage dictate that she should be in London, entering society. He always knew this, even though deep down he'd always wished it didn't have to be that way. And worse, the emotions warring within him about the war itself are hard enough to explain to _Colin_ ; he could not possibly explain what he witnessed in France to _Mary_.

However, Colin is watching him with a shrewd look, as though he knows what he is struggling to express, and he says bluntly, "I'm perfectly aware that you corresponded weekly with Mary. Did she ever tell you she volunteered several days a week at a veterans' home?"

He is startled again. "No, she didn't."

"I didn't think so. It was because she wanted to surprise you when you came home, so you would know she played as active a role in the war as she could, given her status and age. Had she been a year older, she would have gone to France as a nurse's aid or something of the sort, but Lord Willingham made certain she didn't sneak off and do just that. Still, even though she isn't a trained nurse, she learned quite a bit from the nurses she met in the homes and hospitals. Most of the time she would just sit around and play cards or chess with the men, or simply talk with them. She said they loved to hear about her garden and the moor, and would often tell her about the villages they were from. But the main reason she volunteered at all was to prepare herself for the possibility of you being wounded, so she would know what to expect."

"She couldn' have known I'd be wounded."

"Causality rates are printed in the paper every day, Dickon. The law of statistics practically dictated you'd be wounded or killed."

He closes his eyes tightly and says angrily, "I don' want t' think o' it, Colin. Canna we talk o' something else?"

"No, I suppose you _don't_ want to think about it. It's bad Magic – the worst kind, I imagine. But something else I've learned about Magic these past few months is that in order for the good Magic to work, you must expel the bad. I remember the first night I ever met Mary, when she came into my room. I told her my fears of growing up to be a hunchback, or dying an invalid. Even though I still believed those things at the time, I _told_ her. In a way, _talking_ about the bad purges it from you. It's like drawing poison out. You can't keep something horrible locked up inside of you, because if you do, it will just eat away at you until there's nothing good _left_."

"It isn' that easy, for me, righ' now. And I certainly canna talk about it wit' Mary."

"Yes, I'm aware it's not easy," Colin retorts. "Mary told me more than once that the soldiers often found it difficult to talk about the war, and what they'd seen on the lines – especially with ladies or men who hadn't been there and seen it themselves. That is perfectly understandable, because there is no common reference for a soldier to convey the horror of the destruction, of how land can become nothing but mud and barbed wire and death, or the way a man can be ripped apart by gunfire, to someone who hasn't seen it with their own eyes. And of course, there's also the concern that ladies shouldn't have to know such things. But that's just it. Mary _understands_ that it will be hard for you to speak about it. She won't bombard you with questions the moment you arrive. She won't mention the war if she can help it, unless you mention it first. And if you do mention it, she will listen, and will try to understand, because it's important to her."

He can practically feel the poison Colin was just speaking of coursing through his veins, and he hates it. He can see images replaying in his head of men he'd grown to know and feel a certain, special kinship to, being killed in a fashion that left them in pieces of flesh and blood and guts, not even resembling a human, and all within the span of mere seconds. He mutters shakily, "Then I mun not mention it at all. Mary doesn' deserve to know such horrible things. I should feel bad if I made her worry."

Colin laughs, entirely without humor, as he rises to his feet with grace and ease. "Good God, Dickon! It's too late for _that_. She worried for you the entire past year, at least! But most importantly, she didn't mind, because she's hopelessly in love with you. If you don't marry her within the next few months, I think I shall have to hit you." Still chuckling, he holds his hand out. "Come on, our train just pulled in, and you'll need help up the steps."

The younger lad smiles as he easily shoulders the rucksack with his other hand, and Dickon, thoughts still jumbled and confused, rolls off the bench to his feet as best he can without causing his ribs too much pain.

It will be a long journey back to Thwaite, but Colin, in his own strange way, has given him something to think about.


	5. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary and Martha have a discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a Beatles song, released in 1967.
> 
> Also, I should probably admit pretty early that Downton Abbey was a big inspiration for later chapters in this story. I started watching DA very late compared to a lot of people, but it was a big help in visualizing some of the concepts I wanted to cover in Aftermath.
> 
> ~BD

****

## A Day in the Life

****

The sheet snaps with a sharp, crisp noise that echoes in the chilly room. Mary must admit; she finds strange comfort in snapping sheets and tending to what the few remaining housemaids consider "mundane chores". For while she is busy, her mind is occupied, and she cannot dwell on the variety of injuries sustainable on the front lines.

The bedroom she has selected for her "hospital ward" is on the first floor of the manor and has not been utilized in decades – if not for centuries. It took an entire day to scrub the floors and baseboards and walls and windows until all were sparkling clean, and a newly feathered mattress was brought up by a couple of boys who were too young to enlist or else go to a city for work, and had so sought employment at Lord Craven's country house instead.

Martha has been helping her with these necessary tasks, though mostly in silence. Her usually cheerful face is pinched with constant worry, for her eldest brother is wounded and, as Mary discovered upon her return to Misselthwaite, the second eldest Sowerby son, Phil, ran away and joined the army by lying about his age. No one has heard from him since.

"Mother, she says she has an inklin' as t' how Lord Craven felt when Mrs. Craven died," Martha told her dolefully on the evening of her arrival, while brushing out the fire grate in Mary's old room. "She's fair worried for th' both o' them, but at least she knows Dickon's alive. That's a blessin'."

Mary finds that she cannot help but ache with worry for Mrs. Sowerby – a woman who is more of a mother to her then her own mother ever was. She wishes she could do something for the lady, but she feels too lost to do much of anything except clean a once-closed off bedroom.

"I feel as I did when I first came to Misselthwaite," she tells Martha quietly, as they tuck the sheets in around the grand four-poster bed. "I feel lost and contrary, and the idea of a house with a hundred rooms frightens me, even though I have been in all of them."

"Eh!" Martha shakes out a heavy quilt before tossing one end of it across the bed to Mary. "T'was winter when tha first came, and 'tis almost winter now, when tha's returned. But it'll be spring soon enow, and th' flowers will be pushin' out o' the earth, and the world'll start lookin' cheerful again. Mother says th' war canna last forever, and at least we've got Dickon home now."

"That is true enough. But I do wish Colin had telegrammed and told us what his injuries were. That would have been a great help."

"Well, whatever they are, they canna be changed now, most likely." Martha looks sad at this thought, but she continues to smooth the bedding out.

"It still would have helped to be more prepared for it," Mary says sullenly, plumping a pillow into place.

Martha gives her a small smile. "Tha's contrary again, Miss."

"Yes, I know, and I hate myself for it. But, as you say, spring will be here in a few months, and I'll feel better then. Goodness, but I haven't even visited the garden since I arrived! I must do that first thing tomorrow morning, before breakfast."

"I'm surprised thee's returned to Misselthwaite at all, t' be honest. I would have thought thee t' love London. All th' fancy dresses and carriages and parties," Martha says, a tad envious.

"All of those things are pretty and nice, but they also get boring after a while," she replies patiently. "After all, once you've been to one party or ball, you quickly find that they're really all the same. The people are the same, the music is the same, the dresses only change color and style, and the gossip is much as it always is, just with different names each time. It isn't anything like being on the moor, or in the garden, where there is something new and exciting each day."

Martha tilts her head to one side, curiously. "I remember one letter Dickon wrote t' us a few months ago, tellin' us o' how the buildings in th' city have electricity an' such. I canna imagine it, even though I know it's been that way for years, now. Misselthwaite mun surely seem old-fashioned compared t' that."

"Really, Martha. Such things are nice, but I wonder that they don't make people too soft." Even as she says this, she moves around the bed towards an old dresser, to check the wick in an oil lamp.

Martha's lips twitch. "Much as how thy didn' even know how t' dress thysel' when thy came here?"

"Aye, exactly like that." Mary grins at her. "Technology doesn't interest me as much as it does Colin, but then, everything interests Colin." She replaces the lamp's glass shade carefully and straightens a small chair beside the dresser.

"I wish tha'd let me tend t' Dickon, Miss. I know tha wants to, but what if he's ill? I wouldn' want thee t' catch something dreadful."

"That's exactly _why_ I must do it, and you mustn't. If he has some contagious illness, you might pass it along unintentionally to your family." And, seeing Martha's miserable face at her words, she adds quickly, "Don't look that way, Martha. If he's not sick, and only wounded, you can surely help me watch him. I'll likely need your help changing his dressings, I imagine."

Martha nods obediently. "Eh, but it _is_ good t' have thee home again," she murmurs. "Th' house was downright eerie without thee and Mester Colin about, and half o' the maids gone off to York and Leeds, and the menservants joinin' the war. T'was too quiet, tha knows."

"Well, even though I'm back, I don't think it will be any more cheerful in the coming months." Mary sighs and looks out of the window at the muted tones of the moor in late autumn. "I imagine it will still be quiet and dull, Martha. We aren't likely to gain back the staff we've lost." She refrains from voicing her fears of her uncle selling or demolishing Misselthwaite in favor of moving into a smaller home, or a townhouse, due to the loss of staff. She would be devastated to leave this place, and the beautiful grounds.

Thankfully, Martha does not see her strained expression as she turns to tend to the fire. "Perhaps not," the older girl says. "But it canna be worse than before, I'll warrant."

Mary draws her eyes away from the window and tries to sound reassuring, though she doesn't feel that way at all. "I certainly hope not."


	6. Rattler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Dickon head for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a Herman Hermits' song, released in 1967, about traveling on trains and wanting to go home.
> 
> This chapter strongly references comments in the original novel, specifically that Colin wanted to become a scientific discoverer.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Rattler

****

Colin Craven is a scientific discoverer.

Or, perhaps more accurately, Colin Craven is a tenth percentile student at King's College in London.

He is a favorite with his professors, because he always surprises them with a fresh idea or analytical thought. He always seems to be working harder than the other students, paying strict attention during lectures and taking meticulous notes. Should he continue in this vein, he will soon find himself progressing to further realms of education, such as the fields of medicine or the sciences. They wouldn't be in the least surprised, they tell each other privately, if one day they see the name _Colin Craven_ in academic publications, or even in the news, having discovered some great thing.

But then, Colin has always been intelligent. He is simply interested in _knowing_. And he has discovered that sometimes, the best way to learn is to simply keep one's mouth shut and listen. Observe.

That is what he does now.

He observes.

He sits quietly in the first class carriage of the 12:36 train bound for Leeds from London, having abandoned his biology textbook as the afternoon has worn on.

Dickon Sowerby lies on the seat opposite him, so that they face each other. He is too tall to lie completely stretched out, and his knees are bent and scrunched to fit. But at least this way, his back can lie flat, and his ribs won't twist too much.

Oh, the conductor complained, at first. The boy's boots were scuffed and dirty! Didn't they _know_ he simply couldn't put his feet on the velveteen, first class cushions?

Colin's snappish, arrogant retort set the man straight and, thankfully, he's left them alone since then – as has everyone else in the carriage. Not that Colin is bothered by this in the least, of course. He rather prefers being left alone, for as the rocking motion of the train begins to lull several people in the car to a state of drowsiness, and the murmur of talk gradually dies away, it leaves him free to observe without any interference.

It is eerily startling how gaunt Dickon is. His face is pinched and his cheeks are hollow. His jaw is angular and sharp, and his uniform is a size too big for him now, because he has lost flesh these past two months. There is no color to his skin; it is transplant and pale, and his hair seems darker – not quite so copper-ish, but a muted reddish-brown. It no longer curls unruly, but seems wavy and trimmed. So unlike what it was years ago.

Worse, even in sleep, he does not look relaxed, but tense and strained. His mouth, always long and wide, is now set in a grimace and his lips are chapped and colorless. The pain must be worse than he lets on.

Colin's brow furrows slightly in thought; he doesn't like the way this new, strange, altered Dickon looks.

When they finally arrive in Leeds, he must shake his friend awake, and he tries to do so gently. But even so, the older jerks back to consciousness with a jolt and glances about almost wildly, almost scared. But after a couple of seconds, he gasps for breath heavily and hisses in pain as he remembers where he is. Slowly, he makes himself sit up, gripping his ribs with his uninjured arm as he does so.

The dead look returns to the dull blue eyes, as though he is shutting down all emotion, all feeling, all of _everything_ , except the necessity to force himself to move and follow Colin off of the train.

No, Colin does not like these changes in Dickon at all.

They change trains and find themselves chugging towards Harrogate, up into the dales, after an hour of waiting in the station. On the second leg of the journey, watching Dickon becomes difficult to bear; the pain is steadily increasing as the hours from his last dose of medication fly by, and Colin wishes the doctor had given him more than what he did. As it is, such things are so hard to come by right now that he was given very little, and Colin must give it in much smaller doses than what Dickon really needs.

The younger's jaw sets as he feels the little glass bottle in his coat pocket, wrapped neatly in a handkerchief to ensure that it remains safe. When they arrive in Thwaite, he fully intends to contact his uncle and demand proper medication, though he does dislike the man in general. But then, Doctor Craven won't be tending to this patient.

And that will make all the difference, Colin hopes.


	7. Only a Northern Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Dickon arrive in Thwaite, Yorkshire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a Beatles' song, released in 1967 and written by George Harrison.
> 
> I wanted to explore Dickon and Colin's similarities and differences in this chapter; how being friends for a long time can make two people more like family than friends, because you sometimes pick up personality traits from the other person.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Only a Northern Song

****

They stand upon the empty train platform, gazing across a dark, windy moor that never seems to end. Night is falling quickly upon the dales; more quickly than usual for late autumn, because it has been cloudy and cold all day.

It is as though they have left one world and entered another. The train has disappeared completely around the far bend, heading north, and they can no longer hear the deep breathing of steam or the creak of wheels upon rail.

They are completely alone.

For all the world, these two young men could be brothers. They seem like it in how they stand together and look about, their heads slowly turning to take in the misty, damp, cold evening. They are almost the same height, and both have broad shoulders and slender, strong frames. They have faced the fear of death and seen a darker side of life, though on separate occasions; but they have both survived to move forward. They have now leaned upon each other for support and learned what it means to trust the other implicitly with their lives. Perhaps it is this that makes them closer then brothers.

And yet, despite the similarities, they are, in fact, quite different. Mothers who have more than one child will sometimes say, "This one is as fair as day, and this one as dark as night", because of features or personality. But these two boys are not _day_ and night; they are more like _dawn_ and _noon_ , _afternoon_ and _dusk_. One is _fire_ and the other _earth_ , or one is _wind_ and one is _rain_. They are different, yes – but not _day_ and _night_.

"Th' air smells o' rain. 'Tis comin' quick, too."

"Aye. Th' wind'll be wurtherin' tonight, I'll warrant."

There is a slight pause as they continue to peer into the whispering gloom, before the first curiously asks, "Wha' mun they think o' thee, when thy slips an' speaks broad Yorkshire 'round thy friends?"

The other smiles. "I'm afraid I rarely speak Yorkshire in London, because everyone simply stares at me as though I'm a bit odd. Mary, however... Heavens, Mary used to do it just to _annoy_ people. Her friends couldn't understand a word of what she was saying most of the time, and she loved to see their confusion. Once, when one of her teachers suggested she learn a second language, Mary told her she already spoke one! The woman thought she meant French or German or Italian or something of that sort, or even perhaps some Indian dialect. When she found out the truth, she and Mary had a heated argument about whether or not 'Yorkshire' qualified as a second language. The instructor said it was just a common dialect and not befitting for a lady of society, Mary lost her temper, and Lady Willingham had to step in and mediate. The whole fiasco ended with Mary agreeing to learn Japanese, of all bloody things."

By the end of this tale, the older has started to chuckle, which does nothing for his injuries except make them hurt worse. Still, he complains more good-naturedly than not: "Tha's tryin' t' make me laugh, an' tha knows I canna'!"

"Aye, I was," the younger smiles mischievously. "Does thy good, really."

"Nowt o' th' soart! Tha knows I canna laugh; it hurts too much."

"Well, it's the first time you've laughed in two years, I'd bet."

Silence falls between the two at this remark; it is indeed the first time the older has laughed in nearly two years – a laugh that was true and honest, rather than strained and forced. But he doesn't want to admit it, even though they both know it.

After a few prolonged moments with the cold wind biting their ears, the younger says distantly, "We'd best get on the other side before it starts to rain. The stationmaster must have left early. Come on."

Together, the younger supporting the older, they slowly hobble around the station to stand beneath the back eve. There is some shelter from the wind here as well, and they sigh heavily when they finally lean against the weathered side of the little building. A few seconds go by, before they pick up the conversation again.

"So, how does she get on? With th' Japanese, I mean?"

"Oh, that. Well, she originally said the only reason she chose Japanese was because the instructor told her she should learn a second language in case she ever traveled abroad, as so many wealthy people do. But Mary has no inclination to travel anywhere right now, what with the war on, and so she chose a language for a country she was likely to never see in her entire life. The truth is, she can speak a good bit of Japanese, and quite well, actually. She's brilliant when she puts her mind to it, but the trouble with Mary is that she doesn't enjoy studying in the least. Now, take the garden, for example. If she put half as much into studying as she did into her garden, God knows what she'd be doing! After she started studying Japanese and history of the country, she said she was becoming more interested in it than she ever thought she would be. But she doesn't want to do anything _with_ the knowledge, except keep it in her head."

"I wish she had gone on t' study at th' university like tha did."

"She would have hated it, though."

"But still... as you said, she could do so many things... so much more... if she only knew what she was giving up...!"

"She knows. And she's not really _giving up_ anything. Look at it this way. She wouldn't enjoy it, so if she _did_ go to a university, she would hate every second of it. And that would be infinitely worse than not going in the first place. She would much rather be here."

The older pauses, then sighs. "Perhaps tha's right."

"I know I'm right."

They fall silent again. The older is clearly exhausted; he sags against the building and groans every few seconds with pain. His companion watches him closely in the darkness, perhaps even more sharply than the older realizes.

"Don't worry," the younger says quietly, turning to look towards the dirt road that leads into the nearby village. "Soon you can lie down and rest. We'll get you some effective medicine, too. I telegrammed Mary with what time the train would be arriving; I'm surprised she's not here yet."

"Eh, I'm not complaining."

"I didn't say you were. Though really, you've every right too. I've dragged you from London to North Yorkshire in a day's time, without any rest in between. God knows how you've managed to stay on your feet even _this_ long."

"Th' thought o' home. Being out o' that awful place...out o' France. Knowin' I don' have t' go back. Tha canna imagine..."

"Are you sure? I was locked in a room for ten years, remember." Then, he nods towards the road and says simply, "There."

Two spots of light can be seen bobbing along the twisting road, as the vehicle bumps along in the ruts. They watch the car's progress until it finally arrives, but before it has even stopped, the passenger door swings open and they hear an older man's voice from inside yell out over the wind, "Miss, wait a tick!"

The "Miss" does not wait at all, however. Her feet touch the ground as the car rolls to a halt; she leaves the door gaping as she immediately runs up the path to the platform, crying out both boys' names in relief and desperation.

And suddenly, the younger moves without thinking, as though he can see everything playing out before it does. Even as she hurries up the steps, he darts forward and grabs her shoulders, stopping her when she doesn't want to be stopped.

"Mary, wait! His ribs!"

At these words, she jerks to a halt. Startled, wide-eyed, breathing heavily, she stares at him, her mouth hanging open in shock.

"His ribs," he repeats, realizing how close she came to throwing her arms around the older from sheer relief that he is alive. And what would have happened if she had. "Half of them are shattered, Mary."

She wrenches herself free of his grip and lightly slaps at his arm, clearly furious. "Good God, Colin Craven! You could have _telegrammed_ that information! But no, all you had to say was _Arriving 6:04 PM_! What else should I know that you've neglected to tell me, before I do something I oughtn't?"

Sheepishly, the younger explains, "I am sorry, Mary; I didn't think to telegram anything else. We were in sort of a hurry, you know. Aside from his ribs, his arm is broken and badly wounded as well. It's infected, I think. He'll lose it if we don't address it properly. It needs cleaning badly, and he'll need more pain medication, very soon. And a lot of rest."

In the darkness, they cannot see her facial expressions, but after a moment, she draws herself up and grabs the rucksack lying beside her cousin's feet. The older, injured man starts to protest the action, but she cuts him off.

"We'd best hurry; there's a storm coming and the roads are bad enough as it is – that's why we were so late. Mr. Roach? Can you help Colin get him in the car? I think if we lie him down on the backseat, he'll be more comfortable there. I'll sit back there with him."

"I think you're probably right, Miss," Mr. Roach agrees, as he mounts the steps to help the two boys. Putting an arm around the older, he adds, "Thy won' be pushin' no shovels any time soon, lad."

"No," the older replies quietly. "I don' expect I will."

"But tha's alive, and I'm glad o' it! I've lost several gardeners t' th' war, and I'll need all I can get this spring. It'll be a long ride back," Roach rambles on, as they move slowly down the steps against the freezing wind. "The roads are rutted out from the last rain. I fear it won't do thy ribs th' least bit o' good."

"It canna be worse than anything else I've been through," the older says grimly.

"That's certainly true." The younger helps him onto the back seat. The "Miss" has already put the rucksack in and slid across to the other side; her hands gently reach out to help as much as she can; though, by her touch, she seems terrified that she may hurt the wounded man even more.

After a few moments, he is lying across the seat, his head in her lap. His companion gets in the front seat and Roach in the driver's; he puts the car in gear and they lurch forward, and all hear the hiss of breath through the former soldier's teeth.

"Not much longer," the younger man says, trying to sound encouraging and mostly sounding strained, instead.

"Aye," the older agrees, his jaw nearly locked. "Thank God for it."


	8. Blue on Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin feels left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Kenny Wayne Shepherd, released in 1997.
> 
> This is the first of three chapters exploring how each of the main characters can easily feel left out from the other two. The other two chapters are spaced out, but there is also one from Mary's perspective, and one from Dickon's perspective.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Blue on Black

****

Colin Craven feels isolated.

He sits in the front seat of his father's plush, comfortable car, riding through the darkness towards Misselthwaite. Roach, the head gardener, is driving – because John, the young footman who had carried Colin to his chair each day during the summer of the secret garden, is stationed on the western front. Roach isn't quite as accustomed to driving as John was, even though he has been doing the duty whenever needed or asked. He anxiously leans forward to see the road as a few large, random raindrops splatter against the windshield. He ignores everyone in the car with him in order to drive as safely as possible.

But Colin doesn't feel isolated because of Roach's silence; he feels isolated because, in the back seat, one of his closest friends lies with his head in Mary Lennox's lap.

It is an odd feeling, reminiscent of the jealousy he once felt towards Dickon Sowerby years ago. Jealousy that a common cottage boy who lived on the moor could be more interesting to his pretty cousin than the son of a lord was. Only now, Dickon is even taller and Mary isn't just pretty – she's beautiful. And now, instead of the sight of them making Colin angry, it knots in his stomach and makes him feel as though he is intruding upon something private, special. Something he can't be a part of.

Isolated.

In the darkness, in the corner of his vision when he glances towards Roach's strained profile, he can see the backs of Mary's slender, pale fingers brushing against Dickon's gaunt face and neck. She seems oblivious to everything around her; her thumb traces below his lower lip in a slow, maddening line before she trails her fingers across the faint stubble on his chin.

Colin wrenches his eyes away, embarrassed. He cannot think of anything to say, and so he says nothing at all.

He stares ahead into the darkness, trying – and failing – to ignore the miniscule, involuntary whimpers of pain as the car hits bumps and grooves in the road over the moor...and the soft, barely audible whispers of encouragement that follow each one.


	9. Solitary Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Archibald Craven feels left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Neil Diamond, released in 1966.
> 
> This chapter is not in the same style as Colin, Mary, and Dickon's "isolated" chapters, but I did want to explore how Lord Craven is stuck in a different time from the rest of the characters.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Solitary Man

****

"Well?" Archibald Craven glances between his son and his niece, his face rather impassive considering the situation. In fact, it is actually impassive _because_ of the situation; he is not in a position to express emotion regarding current events. He is head of the estate and must remain in control, despite the unorthodox changes taking place.

And yet, he still must obtain facts; he must keep track of what is going on about him. It is nearly ten o'clock at night, and quite obvious that both young adults before him would rather be in bed than in his study receiving advice and keeping him informed. Then again, he would prefer to be in bed himself, too. But it is still a crucial conversation and it cannot wait until morning.

Mary stands stoically near the fire, partially in shadow, with the gold glow shimmering off one side of her face and her hair. Her expression is as mask-like as her uncle's at his question; she remains as still as a statue, as though she is thinking of the best way to answer. However, in her case, allowing emotion to surface would be detrimental to her logical thinking process, and would likely cause her to crumble and burst into tears simply from the stress of it all – something her uncle does not wish to deal with right now. She seems to know that, and he is grateful to her for reading his mood correctly.

Colin is entirely different from his cousin, though. Instead of standing, he falls (almost dramatically) into a chair by the fire and groans, arching his back and shoulders for a moment to relieve the tension in his muscles. Then he sags and rolls his neck, and says, "Mary? It would be absolutely smashing if you would pour me a brandy, please."

To Archibald's annoyance, Mary turns without comment, as though she is accustomed to this sort of request, and walks towards the handsome sideboard where various liquor decanters sparkle in the firelight.

Frowning at his seventeen-year-old son, he says dryly, "Brandy?"

"It's been an _incredibly_ long day," is the sullen remark, as Colin leans against the chair with his head tilted back and his eyes closed to the ceiling.

After a long pause, Lord Craven sighs in resignation. "Very well. Pour two, Mary. And you may as well pour one for yourself, if you would like, since Colin desires one."

"Thank you, Uncle. But I'll pass."

The glass stopper clinks as she pulls it out and places it on the silver tray, and a faint hint of alcohol wafts through the room. The fluid sound of amber liquid hitting the bottom of the brandy snifters accompanies the warm crackle of the fire, and after a few seconds Mary replaces the bottle and carries the two glasses to her uncle and cousin, her long skirts swishing softly. Then she takes her place by the fire again.

Only once both men have taken sips does Lord Craven peer over the top of his to survey his son. "Well?" he repeats.

Colin sighs heavily and sits up a bit straighter. "It's not _good_ , but it could be _much_ worse. The best I can make out is that several of his ribs, on both sides, were fractured during an artillery attack. His left arm was also broken in the same incident. The visible damage is from shrapnel; those wounds are primarily on his forearm but extend to his bicep, with a couple on the left side of his chest. Those on his chest aren't deep or serious, so I can only assume that his arm must have been up in front of him when it happened, because it took the majority of shrapnel spray. He was probably holding his rifle. As for the ribs... They had to have taken a brunt impact."

"Impact from what?"

"Damned if I know. He won't tell me." Colin sounds highly annoyed.

"Give him time, Colin," Lord Craven replies with a frown. "Such experiences are not something easily spoken of."

"He's lucky none of the broken ribs punctured his lungs. Or any other internal organ, for that matter. I can only imagine what he went through in the field hospitals; half of them are bombed out and full of rubble, from what I've been told. He likely did not get the care he needed, with so many wounded soldiers being brought in. And the hospital outside of London wasn't much better. Too many soldiers, not enough emphasis on the individual."

"I imagine the hospitals are as short-staffed and overworked as the field battalions are."

Mary interrupts, "Well, whatever has happened thus far isn't particularly important at the moment. What is important is that we've cleaned the shrapnel wounds that haven't healed yet, wrapped the broken arm carefully, and put it in a sling so he can't move it tonight and damage it more. We've also bound his torso to keep his ribs from moving."

Lord Craven gazes at her for a few seconds, before he says mildly, "That's all well and good, Mary. But, despite what either of you have done, or want to do, he _will_ need to be seen by an actual doctor. Neither of you have the experience needed for this."

"Yes, we know," Colin mutters, throwing back his remaining brandy.

His father rises from his chair and ignores him. "His arm will need to be set properly," he goes on, "to ensure it heals without complications. It might mean breaking it again; I wouldn't know. I'm sure you will both be irritated by it, but I've taken the liberty of contacting my brother. He will be here tomorrow to inspect the damage and see if there is anything he can do. Despite how you both feel about him, he is a doctor, and he is family."

Mary and Colin glance at each other with similar, annoyed expressions; Archibald frowns at both of them and adds, "I'm sure you will both also recall that he _knows_ Dickon; has since Dickon was a child, because he's practiced medicine in this area for years. That makes him much more willing to assist in Dickon's recovery then another doctor would be. In the _meantime_ ," he adds, seeing that both wish to speak, "Someone will need to visit his mother and update her on the situation. As a parent, I am sure she is worried."

Colin yawns pointedly; a sign that he is quite ready for the discussion to end. "I can do that tomorrow."

"She'll probably wish to come here herself," Mary says. She is watching her uncle very closely, as though waiting to see his reaction. "To see if she can help."

"I imagine she will," he replies tonelessly. "As neither of you felt that he should go to his family's cottage in his condition. Mary, you should inform Martha that her mother will likely drop by, so that she can take her upstairs to see him. And incidently... has anyone told him about his brother, yet?"

Colin and Mary both shift nervously; they glance at each other and then away again. Lord Craven takes this to be the _no_ that it is, but does not press the matter, and only says, "It is probably best if you don't, yet."

Mary hesitates slightly, then falters, "Martha said it might be best if Mrs. Sowerby tells him. Colin and I thought we would make ourselves scarce for an hour or so, and give them time to talk."

"Likely a wise decision. But you will need to be back in his room before they leave, to ensure he is not left alone for very long. That, I fear, will be a hard blow on top of everything else that has happened to him recently."

Mary nods automatically, and Colin stands up to place his glass on the sideboard. In a would-be casual voice, he asks, "You don't like this, do you?"

"Like what, m'boy?"

"Dickon. Staying here."

There is a moment of silence, before Archibald sighs heavily. "Mary tells me that many social changes are taking place around the country, and I suppose she is correct. But it is harder, Colin, for an old man to accept such changes than it is for a younger man." He pauses, and then adds quietly, "Still. Dickon is your friend, and I do not forget what he has done for us. Give me time."

"Yes, sir. I understand. And, if there is nothing else, I would like to retire for the evening. I'm rather exhausted."

"Understandable. As you say – It has been a long day."

Glancing at each other, the two cousins nod imperceptibly and quietly leave the study together, mumbling good night to Lord Craven.

Only once they are gone does he move to pour himself another brandy, sighing heavily as his eyes travel about the handsome room, taking in all that he knows so well. He wonders why everything must change, and then, as he seats himself before the fire, he thinks that perhaps he should just let Colin and Mary deal with such changes, so he can live out his old age in peace.


	10. Can't Get Next to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon feels left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by the Temptations, released in 1971.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Can't Get Next to You

****

Dickon Sowerby feels isolated.

He sits in a comfortable chair by the bedroom window, watching as two cousins laugh and chase each other over the dead grass and through the empty flowerbeds. Colin is much taller and faster than Mary, but Mary is smaller, more willowy, and has the ability to slide through gaps in bushes and borders that Colin has more trouble with due to his build.

Her dress is a dark, muted blue, and she wears a dark brown coat over it. But despite her drab clothing, her cheeks are flushed with exercise and her eyes are bright and full of laughter. He can tell even from here.

"I brough' thee tea wit' honey an' lemon," Martha says quietly from behind him. "An' some broth. Mother says thy needs t' drink it ev'ry day, t' get thy strength back. She says she'll visit thee several times a week if thy wishes, t' see how thy's doin'. Doctor Craven says that would be good for thee."

He doesn't respond to her, for he is still watching Colin and Mary. They dart around a lifeless birdbath in their fun, and Colin finally manages to snatch Mary around the waist. She twists to get away from him, breathless with laughter, but in the ensuing confusion they trip over each other and collapse in a heap. Colin releases her so that he can roll onto his back, laughing all the while, and Mary sits up, flushed and smiling despite her disarranged coat and twisted skirts.

It is a dark, bitter feeling, Dickon decides. He knows Colin isn't really interested in Mary as anything more than a cousin, or anything closer than a sister. But once, just few short years ago, Colin _did_ fancy her. That in itself was easy enough to understand at the time (though it did sting, some), because Mary has always been beautiful and full of life, and Colin had been sheltered and had seen very few other girls, none of which were his own age. Mary had brought him out of his room and into the garden, where he had learned to walk, and that was something no boy could forget.

Eventually though, as Colin grew older, his feelings changed and he began to see Mary as only a friend, a cousin. He spent more time in London, in society. He met other girls who weren't related to him by blood, and came to fancy a couple of them by the time he'd turned sixteen.

But even knowing all of that, a nasty, malicious part of Dickon's mind questions their current innocent play; they are nearly eighteen years old, and chasing each other through gardens and across the lawns isn't quite as innocent as it once was. Furthermore, they are bound by class, having lived in a world Dickon has only ever seen from the outside until two days ago. It makes him feel lonely and different, as though he is intruding upon something only they can make sense of. Something he can't be a part of.

Isolated.

He shifts his eyes away from the window and looks at the bowl of broth his sister has placed on the table beside him.

"Thy'll be runnin' about wit' 'em afore thy knows it," she says, attempting to sound cheerful, having misinterpreted his gaze.

He doesn't respond to this, either. Martha has been acting as though she's been walking upon eggshells all day, uncertain what to say or do. She seems to want to forget the morning altogether, when Doctor Craven came to visit his newest patient for the first time. It had been quite an ordeal to have the broken arm and ribs looked over and bandaged yet again, and worse that Mary had been present for the entire examination. Of course, Mary had insisted upon this, despite Dickon's protests, and Lord Craven's brother had patiently explained to her how to clean the dressings properly on the days he would be unable to come, whilst reminding Dickon not to argue with his exceptionally pretty young "nurse". Mary had ignored this remark, and silently watched and nodded at the doctor's instructions, memorizing each detail, and seemingly oblivious to Dickon's discomfort at the fact that she was in the room.

He wasn't sure that she could understand _why_ he hadn't wanted her there, though. The truth was, he didn't want her to see him without his shirt, because there were cuts and scars and open wounds on his body that hadn't yet healed. Visible reminders of what he had lived through.

He hadn't thought things could get worse, but they did. After Mary and Doctor Craven left the room, Susan Sowerby had remained behind. Dickon didn't want to think about what she had remained behind _for_ – to tell her oldest son that no one had any idea where Phillip was, or if he was even alive. He briefly wondered how on earth a cottage full of nine other people could have allowed the boy to leave unnoticed, before he remembered that there had been many a day in his childhood that he had left unnoticed himself.

Martha suddenly giggles and waves; Dickon glances towards the window to see Mary waving eagerly back at her. Even as she does so, her eyes meet Dickon's, and she smiles shyly at him from the lawn.

Then, before he can try and smile back, she turns to beckon Colin to come back into the house with her. Her cousin pulls himself up from the coarse lawn and follows her, brushing himself off as he does so.

They are coming back in for _him_ , and he suddenly wishes they wouldn't. They were happier outside; they shouldn't be forced to watch over him all of the time when he feels so depressed and alone. And even though he doesn't like them playing together without him, _he_ was the one who suggested they go outside in the first place. So they could get out of the dark bedroom for a while, and get some fresh air.

"I'll go downstairs an' bring up their tea, too – so tha can all eat together. Eh, but it is good t' have thee home again."

Martha leaves him, and when Mary and Colin burst into the room a few minutes later, pulling off scarves and gloves and coats, telling him all about the gardens outside, he still simply listens, because the truth is, he isn't sure what to say.

And so he says nothing at all.


	11. Winter Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary and Colin play chess, Colin and Dickon discover one of Mary's secrets, and Lord Craven messes with Colin's head a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, this is one of my favorite chapters of this story, because it hints at historical issues going on besides World War I, and it was just fun to write these three as friends, having a good natured teasing session over a game of chess.
> 
> Incidentally, I know nothing about chess, really.
> 
> Also, there is an ironic little jab at Princes Edward and Albert, and who becomes king one day.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Winter Light

****

The voices within the bedroom capture his attention as he is walking down the hall, and he pauses at the door to absorb a scene that reminds him of old times. Times when three children raced each other about Lilias's secret garden, laughing and tumbling and playing until they were breathless. The only difference is that now, they are all grown. But they still have the same smiles.

A small table has been set up next to the bed, with two chairs on either side. Dickon sits on the bed itself, watching as yet another game of chess unfolds before him. Colin and Mary sit opposite each other, each wearing expressions of challenge and defiance that indicate a minor war is taking place between them.

"It always looks so hard," Dickon admits, as Mary frowns intently at the checked board, contemplating her next move.

"Oh no, it's really simple once you get the hang of it," Colin replies encouragingly. "I'll teach you, if you'd like. I always meant to, but it always seemed we were doing other things instead."

For a split second, both fear and resolution flicker across Dickon's handsome features. "No," he says curtly. "I don' want t' learn. But thank thee."

Colin stares at him, startled. "Why ever not?"

There is a pause before Dickon replies darkly, "Tis too much like war." He does not look up at either of his friends, but resorts to glaring mutinously at a pawn Mary has been toying with.

The tension crackles for a couple of seconds, before Colin at least has the good grace to look abashed. "Oh. Well, I suppose that is true. Chess _is_ like war."

" _I've_ never thought of it that way." Mary releases the pawn and immediately shifts one of her knights to take Colin's remaining bishop.

Both boys look up at her in surprise.

"Of course it's like war," Colin argues lightly. "It's exactly like war, really."

"Th' pawns are jus' like enlisted soldiers, an' th' rest are like commandin' officers."

Mary regards both of them coolly for a moment, before she says in a lofty voice, "Perhaps that's how men think of it, but I've never thought of chess that way."

"And how do _you_ think of chess, then?" Colin demands.

"If I told you _that_ , I'd be giving away tactical secrets."

Her cousin glares at her. "I don't see how it would help me one way or the other to know your tactics. You know all of mine, after all!"

Mary shrugs one shoulder. "Yes, well. That comes from years of playing against you. As far as chess is concerned, you're predictable, Colin. Terribly predictable."

"But you _aren't_ ," he complains. "I never know what you're going to do next on the bloody board! You'd think after seven years, I'd have learned!"

She smiles mischievously. "Yes, well... It's your turn."

He scowls at her for her lack of information, then glances at the board and reaches for one of his rooks. Mary almost giggles, but manages to press her lips together just in time. Colin snatches his hand back as though burned.

"What? Do you _expect_ me to move a rook?"

"Yes," she admits, grinning sheepishly.

"Well, that just goes to show you that you're _wrong_ ," Colin snaps out maddeningly, and he moves a pawn instead.

Mary doesn't even hesitate; she quickly takes said pawn with her knight, and Colin snarls furiously.

She laughs. "It does you good to lose every so often. You're so smart at everything else, you should lose at _something_ once in a while." And, turning to smile prettily at Dickon, she explains, "The trick is to get him flustered. Then he starts playing recklessly. He would never have made that move earlier in the game."

" _Mary_!" Colin looks furious. "This is exactly why none of the young men in London wanted to play against you, you know! You're a right little devil at the game!"

"As if I couldn't hear them whenever they spoke to you, and I was in the same room?" she says scathingly, crossing her arms haughtily. " _Colin, won't you introduce me to your charming cousin? I'd do anything to meet the beautiful Miss Mary Lennox! Would your cousin object if I wished to court her, Mr. Craven?_ Absolute rubbish."

"It was always at this point," Colin continues, speaking mostly to Dickon while glowering at Mary, "that she would interrupt the conversation before I could politely direct their attentions elsewhere, knowing she wasn't interested in any of them. Before I could say anything, she would request that they play a bit of chess with her, smiling like a little china doll the whole while. Most of the men thought it was a brilliant idea at the first! Thought it would be _nice_ to humor her, perhaps attempt to teach her their tricks at the game. At least, that's what they thought until they actually sat down at the board and realized, ten minutes later, that they were losing _spectacularly_. Most of them were university students or business executives, and they most certainly _didn't_ like losing to a girl, no matter how intelligent she was, and that would always be the end of it."

"Serves them right," Mary says defiantly. "I never wanted to be courted by any of them, anyways."

Dickon chuckles at her fire and grins, as though she's brilliant for evading the clutches of wealthy men in such an unusual way. "I'm still curious, though," he muses. "How _does_ thy think o' chess pieces, if not like war? It mun be something interesting, otherwise thy would 'ave lost t' Colin's acquaintances."

Mary suddenly blushes a soft pink, and after a few seconds she mumbles, "No, I couldn't possibly tell you. You'd both tease me."

Colin's eyes instantly light with interest. "No we wouldn't," he says. His attempt to make this sound like an innocent request fails.

"Aye, go on, tell us."

"Go on, Mary. We'd love to know."

She looks hopelessly from one to the other, and seems to realize that she won't be able to get out of it now. Nervously, she says, "Well... I think of the pawns as... as members of Parliament."

" _Parliament_?" Colin and Dickon both stammer the word in surprise.

"Yes," Mary goes on, her voice a bit stronger now, "Or else girls I knew in London." She scowls at a pawn. "I disliked so many of them. They were always twittering about in such an irritating fashion, going on about this man or this one, and who they should like to marry and who they shouldn't like to marry, or if they should buy a new dress for so-and-so's afternoon tea the next day..."

"And the other pieces?" Colin interrupts, twitching slightly at her rant.

"Well, the bishops change with each game, but they're usually some older person I know. One rook is Ben Weatherstaff's robin, and the other is Soot, and one knight is always Colin."

Colin's eyebrows are to his hairline by this point, as though trying to comprehend her thought process, but Dickon looks annoyed.

"An' who is th' other knight?" he demands.

Mary flushes a much brighter pink at these words, and Colin suddenly smirks between the two. He opens his mouth to make what will likely be an educated guess, but Mary speaks before he does.

"I'm always the queen," she says firmly, while resolutely ignoring Dickon's question.

"Am I th' other knight?" he presses, his blue eyes staring at her quite intently.

She buries her face in her hands to avoid the intensity of his gaze. "No," she mumbles again, barely audible.

Dickon immediately looks stunned and hurt, and Colin presses, "Who _is_ the other knight, then?"

"Oh, all right, fine then!" Mary's hands drop away from her face, which is now flushed and hot, yet also irritated and determined. "The other knight is always Prince Edward!"

If anything she has said previously surprised the two young men before her, it is nothing compared to their surprise now.

"Edward?"

"Prince _Edward_?"

"I don' even know where t' begin with that one!"

"Me, either! _Prince Edward_?"

"And what on earth is _that_ supposed to mean?" Mary demands angrily, glaring from one to the other.

Colin rolls his eyes and sullenly slouches in his chair. "He's a smarmy bloke, even if he's going to be king one day!"

Dickon, however, takes a different approach. "Eh, he goes t' th' lines, though. I admire him for that. _Still_..." He frowns at Mary, a trace of jealousy on his face.

"Well? Who the hell is the king, then?" Colin points at Mary's white king, before she can respond to Dickon. "Prince _Albert_?"

"Absolutely not!" Mary looks furious. "Can we please continue? It's your turn!"

"No, no. It's King George, isn't it?"

" _Colin_!"

"Tell us!"

"I'm not _going_ to tell you, so you may as well decide your next move!"

"I've got it. Queen Victoria." Colin sniggers.

Dickon grins at this ridiculous jest, before he suggests, "Prince Henry?"

They both laugh, while Mary struggles to control her temper. But then, to everyone's surprise, Colin suddenly sits up perfectly straight, and stares in shock at his cousin.

"Wait. Wait, I _do_ know who it is. You said you were the queen, didn't you?"

"Colin, it's _your turn_ ," Mary repeats crossly.

"It's Dickon. The king is Dickon, isn't it? God, no wonder you always win! You'd do anything to protect your king if you think of it as _Dickon_!"

Her eyes have narrowed dangerously, and for a long moment, none of them speaks. Colin looks resigned and Dickon looks stunned, while Mary is nearly bright red.

"If you aren't going to move," she finally snaps, her voice trembling slightly, "Then I may as well put the pieces away."

"Eh! I'm no king!" Dickon laughs softly, trying to break the moment of tension. "I wouldn' know where t' begin with that kind o' money!"

Mary looks upset, and bursts out, "There's more to being a king then money!"

"Yes, if you're Prince Edward, apparently all you need is to be _handsome_ ," Colin bites out scathingly.

"There's nothing wrong with Prince Edward! Like Dickon said – he cares about his subjects! He's fighting in the war and he goes to the front lines to see the soldiers!"

"He's a smarmy bloke," Colin mutters again.

Dickon frowns suddenly. "I never knew thy fancied Prince Edward, though."

"That's entirely beside the point." Colin waves his hand as though to brush this statement aside. "She fancies you much more. She made _you_ the king, not Prince Edward. He's just a bloody knight, like I am."

And, quick as lightening, Mary stands and heads towards the door, nearly upsetting the chessboard.

Colin half-rises from his chair. "Mary, wait! We're not finished with the game!"

"Finish it your bloody self, then!" Mary yells back at him.

Dickon and Colin both burst into laughter as she storms into the hallway, and Mary nearly runs headlong into her uncle. She stumbles backwards, draws herself up regally, and, after a tense moment, says stonily, "Uncle Archie. Please excuse me. I will see you at dinner in an hour?"

Then, without further comment, she brushes past him and walks swiftly but straight-backed down the hall, ignoring the renewed, roaring amusement issuing from the patient's bedroom at her misfortune of crashing into Lord Craven on top of everything else.

As soon as she disappears around the corner however, Archibald peers through the doorway at his son.

"I think, tonight at dinner," he says thoughtfully, over the continued chortling, "I shall inform Mary that someone she knows rather well fancies the Princess Mary of York."

Instantly, the blood drains from Colin's face. "You wouldn't," he croaks, his mouth hanging open, the laughter suddenly gone. It's obvious he has no idea how his father has figured this secret bit of information out, when he hasn't told anyone.

"Oh, I think I should." Lord Craven smiles, deciding to keep the knowledge of being a father to himself. "I think she would be excessively diverted by such information, don't you? It _is_ only fair, Colin."

And before Colin and beg him not to, he turns and leaves, almost laughing himself. Perhaps it is good that Dickon is staying in the house, he thinks. Because it feels good to smile for a change.


	12. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary feels left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a Beatles' song, released in 1969.
> 
> Special thanks to Clio1792 over on FFN, fellow Scarlet Pimpernel junkie, for acting as a sounding board for this chapter. Her thoughts were quite helpful in helping me write Dickon "in character". While the topic at hand may seem controversial, it was quite common during WWI (and other wars as well), and it was a theme I wished to examine from Dickon's viewpoint.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Come Together

****

Mary Lennox feels isolated.

She stands in the corridor, hidden in shadows against the wall, out of sight from the bedroom's occupants.

"...Th' others always wanted me t' go wit' 'em, whenever we had leave an' could get t' Paris, or one o' th' other towns. I went into a couple, but every time I got inside, I jus' couldn' do anything like that." His voice sounds both disgusted and weary, and he sighs heavily after this confession.

"Well, they serve a practical purpose," is the calm response, "But some of them are downright unsanitary. Probably best you didn't."

"Aye, I know what thy means. It _is_ practical, 'specially in wartime. When tha's all alone and feelin' as though the world will end th' next day. But still..." There is a pause, then, "It was good money for 'em, being paid by British soldiers for an hour o' time. I remember th' first time I went in one, an' th' girl who took me had blonde hair an' blue eyes. She was pretty enow, even if she was French. She were about my age, I warrant. But... I jus'... I couldn' do it. She didn' look a thing like Mary, an' yet she reminded me o' Mary at th' same time. I was lonely; being on th' lines makes any man lonely for that soart o' thing. But... it wouldn' 'ave been th' same as being with Mary, and I would 'ave felt bad for it later. Worse, part o' me _wanted_ to, because I wasn' sure if I could even be with Mary if I made it home alive anyways, so what was th' point in holdin' out, I wondered?"

"Well? What did you do?"

Ruefully, "I kissed her once, an' that's when I realized I jus' couldn' do it, no matter how lonely I was, or how much I thought Mary mayn' want me if I made it back. I felt out o' place, if tha knows wha' I mean. But I paid her anyways, an' thanked her for what she would 'ave done jus' th' same. She was fair disappointed, I think."

Mary's fingers have grown numb and her heart pounds hard against her ribs. She can hear a faint buzzing in her ears that most certainly shouldn't be there, and her face seems cold.

Then, abruptly, the conversation moves on.

"How did you like Paris overall?"

"Eh, t'was beautiful. But it wasn't home."

"No, it isn't home. But it is a beautiful city. I love the parks and avenues there."

"I'm glad I got t' see it. When I was a boy, I never thought I'd see anything outside o' Yorkshire. I couldn' believe how wide th' streets were, with all th' trees linin' 'em. Sometimes I think I should like t' see it after th' war, if it ever ends. But then... I don' know if I could ever go back t' France."

"That's something you'll have to decide for yourself."

"Aye. But, does thy know? Th' more I saw o' th' world, and everyone in it, th' more I realized everything I could ever want is righ' here."

"There are no brothels, though."

There is laughter at this remark, from both sides.

"Aye, there's not! But I canna say I'd want t' see one 'round here. It wouldn' be right."

It is an odd, unpleasant feeling, Mary decides. She knows that if they knew she were right outside the door, they wouldn't be having this conversation. It is a conversation between two young men, two friends, and not for a woman to join in. It was never meant for her to hear at all, because Dickon would have known it would hurt her. It makes her feel sad and lonely, as though she is intruding upon something private. Something she can't be a part of.

Isolated.

Keeping to the shadows, she glances through the partially open door. Colin leans against the wide windows, gazing at the gray drizzle that obscures the view. He wears slacks and a white button-down shirt, and his hands are relaxed in his pockets; it is a look much more casual than what he sports while in London. Dickon lies in the bed, watching Colin. He has more color then he did even two days before, as though he is already growing healthier.

Colin turns back to face him, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed to continue their conversation. "I'd like to see New York again, myself," he says. "One of my professors was considering taking several of the students to a university debate at Harvard, and suggested visiting New York or Boston afterwards."

Dickon makes a small noise of disbelief. "Tis far too dangerous t' cross the Atlantic right now."

"Dangerous, yes, but not impossible. I can't say I _want_ to cross it right now, not after all the attacks on ships. Though it doesn't really matter," he adds gloomily, "for Father is positively adamant about me not traveling out of England until at least two months after the war ends. He says it'll likely take that long to find all of the German u-boats and get them out of the water. I wouldn't be surprised."

"I always hated ridin' on th' troop ships. Never thought I'd be seasick, but it was 'orrible."

At this, Colin's face lights up. "Oh, it's much different on a liner. Perhaps we can all take a trip to America or Canada after the war ends. I'm sure you'd like it better if you weren't below the decks. And it might do you good to see other places besides France."

Dickon seems dubious. "Seems far away from home t' me. An' I thought France was too far away from home. Hasn' tha ever felt that way, when tha travels?"

"Not at first. Usually after a couple of weeks I start wishing to return to England, but by then I've seen all I want to see, so it doesn't particularly matter."

"I'm suppose I'm opposite o' thee, then. I start wishin' I could go back th' second I'm leavin'." There is a pause, then, curiously Dickon asks, "What's thy favorite liner t' travel on?"

Colin's face takes on a dreamy expression. "Maury." Then, more seriously, he explains, "Mauretania. But everyone calls her Maury, for short. I rode on her one time to New York with father, in 1914."

"I remember thee goin' t' America back then. Tha bought back postcards for me t' see everything tha saw, an' Mary brought back all soarts o' flowers t' plant in th' garden. Some o' 'em fair thrived. I hope they're still alive, after these two year."

"We'll know this spring, won't we? That seems such a long time away, though. I hope the Mauretania will go back into transatlantic service after the war. If she's not sunk first. So many liners have been torpedoed already. I don't think that dazzle paint scheme is working." He sounds greatly annoyed at this idea.

Thoughtfully, Dickon replies, "Maybe. Maybe not. I do know a lot o' soldiers think a ship unlucky if it isn' painted that way, though."

"Really? How interesting. That would mean that the effect is more or less psychological, and not necessarily physically effective. I wonder if that's why the military does it, or if they really believe it makes the ships more difficult to track on the surface? I'll have to inquire with my military sources when I return to London." There is another pause, then, "I've been buying shares in the major liner companies for the past year now, even though most of them are laid up for the war. Father thinks it's a foolish venture, but the war can't last forever, and liners will be back in passenger service soon, I think. I'm not sure for how long, though. Airplanes are novelties at the moment, but I expect we'll soon be flying places instead of sailing."

"Eh, I hope not. Tha couldn' get me in one o' those things," is Dickon's flat, stubborn response. "I've watched too many o' them divin' this way an' that, being shot down an' crashin'. Kills the pilot instantly, most o' th' time. Some o' 'em even carry pistols t' shoot themselves if they get shot down, so th' impact doesn' kill 'em instead. I thought it was horrible, mesel'."

"The airplanes they're using are just prototypes for what will come in the future, though. Of course they're not quite as safe as they will be yet."

"I don't care; tha won't be getting' me in one, Colin."

Colin laughs. "All right, all right. ...Say, where on earth is Mary? I thought she went down to check on Martha and request tea, but she should have been back by now."

"Maybe tha should find her. It isn' like her t' be so late." Dickon sounds worried.

"No, it isn't. I'll be back in a moment."

And, instantly, Mary darts backwards and silently flees to the end of the hall, where she disappears down a short flight of stairs into a different corridor, her heart beating furiously as she listens for Colin's footsteps. She isn't sure why, but she knows she can't possibly be caught listening outside doors on conversations that she cannot be a part of. And she sadly wonders if perhaps Dickon and Colin are both too worldly and intelligent for her to really feel a part of them again. Then she curses herself for thinking such a thing, for she is neither stupid nor ignorant; she reads the papers and follows the war daily, and her marks were exceptionally high while in London! She _knows_ men go to brothels while on leave...or she _would_ have known, if she'd thought of it before now. And besides, Dickon didn't _do_ anything, from what she overheard. He decided not to, because of her!

Still, despite this thought, a couple of tears prick at her lashes all the same. She hates feeling as though she can't be a part of something; a part of Dickon and Colin's conversation. To her knowledge, they never had private, man-to-man conversations when they were all younger, after all. She was always included.

She brushes her wrist angrily against her eyes and slips into an unused, former bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. It is dark and lonely here, but she needs a few minutes alone. It will take that long to regain control of herself, for she will not let her two closest companions see her crying over something they would probably consider silly.

And that thought makes her feel even lonelier.


	13. Can't Take It In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A transition chapter to explore how wars never really end.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Can't Take It In

****

She rushes into the bedroom in a whirl of relief and happiness and skids to a stop, nearly falling on top of him in her haste.

"It's over," she breathes quickly. "It's all over, Dickon!"

"Wha'?" He stares up at her in confusion as she grasps the back of the chair he has been resting in with one hand, while she catches her breath.

"The war! It's over! Oh, Dickon, it's really over!"

For a few seconds, he merely gapes at her, as though trying to process what she is saying. She sinks onto the footstool and grasps his hand, gazing up at him imploringly.

"It was in today's paper! Uncle Archie just read it to me; I left breakfast to come and tell you!" she explains. "Germany signed an armistice yesterday, at eleven o'clock in the morning. The war is over! ...Well, not _technically_ over, since they'll have to sign treaties and such, and that sort of thing may take months, but the ceasefire is at least in effect now, so there won't be any more fighting! The soldiers can start coming home, and..."

But to her surprise, he still doesn't respond. Instead, his gaze shifts slowly towards the window, out across the lifeless moor. His is expression is sad, lost. It is as though he hasn't even heard her.

She tightens her grip on his fingers, almost desperately. "Isn't that wonderful news, Dickon?"

"Aye," he whispers. "I sup'ose."

"You... suppose?"

"I'm glad it's over," he elaborates unwillingly. "So that no one else will live through it. But... in a way... it's not over at all."

Her face crumples at his words, and she slowly releases his hand, her eyes glancing towards his other arm, which is tightly bound in a cloth sling. For a brief moment, she remembers all of the men she met in the hospitals and homes while in London – men without arms, legs, hands, feet, sight... And she knows that Dickon is quite right: The war isn't really over at all, because too many men have been wounded or killed, and so many people will never be the same.

But perhaps one day, she thinks, as she rises to leave him in peace, Dickon will be able to live again, even if he won't be the same as before.


	14. Song for a Winter's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary and Dickon have a late night conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter harkens to scenes in the original novel, in which Mary crept out of bed to find Colin in the middle of the night.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Song for a Winter's Night

****

She isn't certain what woke her, but she is suddenly as wide-awake as if it were morning.

For a few seconds, she listens intently, her heart pounding unnecessarily. The silence presses upon her ears, until she hears the distant bong of the clock, chiming the half hour. It is surely the middle of the night, but the exact time, she knows not. Her body relaxes slightly, but she still feels somewhat uneasy.

And, without any explanation except for this uneasy feeling, she slides from beneath the blankets and throws a soft wrapper about her shoulders, takes the guttering candle from the table beside her bed, and slips into the pitch-black corridor.

As she moves slowly through the silent house, she is reminded of another time in which she left her room in the middle of the night. A time when she heard a distant cry somewhere in the manor and was determined to discover the source. Back then, she was unfamilar with the confusing passageways and the many rooms; now, she knows exactly where she is going and where every corridor leads. But the house still has that same, eerie feeling that it had almost eight years ago, which makes the fine, pale hairs on the back of her neck prickle with slight wariness.

Her feet pad noiselessly against the thick, dusty carpet, until she finally stops outside the door she has sought. She gently turns the knob, taking care that it does not creak, nor the door when she presses it open a few inches to peek inside.

The room is dark except for the dull flicker of the single candle on the bedside table, which illuminates the pale features of a young man lying in the large bed. But, to her surprise, he is twitching in his sleep, the muscles in his face moving slightly as he dreams. It is obviously not a pleasant dream, for his mouth is set and he looks as though he were in pain.

A wave of horror makes her hands grow cold; she slips quickly into the room and closes the door behind her, hurries over to the bed and places her candle on the table, beside the one already lit, and grasps his good arm.

"Dickon! Dickon, wake up!"

He jerks awake suddenly when she touches him, gasping for breath, and he stares wildly at her as though he is uncertain of where he is or who _she_ is. But then the moment passes, and he closes his eyes tightly with a wince and grabs her hand, squeezing it in apparent, sheer relief.

"You... you were dreaming." Her voice falters as she whispers to him. "I woke up a few minutes ago, and I thought I would check on you. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to wake you, but..."

"No... No, donna be sorry for it. T'was a dream," he whispers back. His eyes are still closed, his breathing still heavy. "A nigh'mare, really. Not a dream. I'm _glad_ tha woke me, I promise thee! I couldn' get out o' it. An' I wanted to. I... I wanted it end... I thought maybe t'was real..." He sighs and sinks into his pillow as he relaxes. "But it wasn'. Thank God, it wasn'."

She shifts and climbs onto the bed to sit next to him, curling her feet beneath her and tucking her nightdress around her for warmth. Then, taking his hand again, she whispers, "Would thy like t' talk o' it?"

He opens his eyes. In darkness lit only by dim candlelight, they are nearly black instead of blue, contrasting sharply against the stark paleness of his skin, but as shuttered as they have been since the day he returned to Misselthwaite. He takes a deep, slow breath and whispers, "No. Tha shouldn' have t' hear such things, Mary."

"An' tha shouldn' have t' live through them ov'r an' ov'r," she retorts.

A couple of seconds tick by, and they both smile softly at each other over this battle of wills.

Slowly though, his smile fades. He swallows, and says in a low voice, "There was a man in my unit named Carroll Aldrich. He an' I came t' be good friends, an' he'd been on th' lines for four months already. Still... He was always so... cheerful."

And she listens without speaking, without interrupting, without releasing his hand. The story seems to tumble from him freely once he starts: He tells her how this man helped him improve his writing so he could send his letters to her without too many grammatical or spelling errors, because Carroll had been a tutor for a wealthy family in Leeds. He tells her how they sat along the duckboards together during the shelling, encouraging each other; how Carroll joked freely while they sat waiting for orders, quoting from Shakespeare and other authors Dickon had never heard of. He tells her how this man told him what to do and what not to do, how to stay as safe as possible when the shelling and machine gun fire started. How they had saved each other once apiece from what would have likely been death.

And he tells her that one day, when they were ordered to attempt to take a German trench, Carroll was gunned down by machine fire. He tells her how he had hurriedly dragged the tutor's body back to the English lines after the assault was deemed a failure, risking his own life in what some thought was an unnecessary way. But he had been unable to bear Carroll remaining in no-man's land to rot, as bodies often did. He briefly whispers of how many men he'd once known that had lain dead in the mud in no-man's land, rotting in the burning sun during the summer or freezing under the ice in winter, catching random sprays of bullets or shrapnel, until they were completely unrecognizable. How he thinks no one should ever have to witness such an awful thing as that, because it reduces men to something lower than human beings. But despite all of this, he is careful not to give _too_ many gory details, because he doesn't want to speak of them or remember them himself, let alone scare Mary.

She squeezes his hand gently, bringing him back to Misselthwaite, back to the present, making him look at her again.

"There was nothin' left," he whispers, after a long, thick moment. "Carroll, he was one o' th' first friends I had there. An' when th' round hit him, there was nothing left."

"You've never told anyone, have you?" she asks quietly.

He shakes his head, and she can see several tear tracks glittering in the firelight. Silent tears, she reminds herself, for his voice never broke during his tale, for he didn't want her to see him cry.

"Colin told me it might be good for me t' talk about some things," he says heavily. "But I shouldn' be tellin' thee about them. Tha doesn' deserve to know such awful things, an' I'm sorry, Mary –"

"There was a soldier," she interrupts in a soft voice, "in one of the hospitals I visited once. He had lost his right arm. He saw me reading the day's paper to another soldier, who had been blinded by poison gas, and he particularly noticed that, on the page I was reading, there was a photograph taken from one of the lines. He politely stopped me, and told me that he would continue reading the paper to the other soldier, because he didn't think a lady should have to see such awful images. I smiled at him and told him I didn't mind, but I thanked him for his kindness just the same. He stared at me for a moment, and then he smiled back at me and asked if I weren't upset by such things. I told him that, yes...it did bother me, but that someone very close to me was fighting on the front, and I was not so weak as to ignore what was happening in the world. So you see, I don't mind if you tell me what you saw, even if it was horrible – because I know it was. You can't keep it inside of you forever. That would kill you, and then the war itself will have won."

"But if I tell thee, tha'll have nightmares, too," he protests.

"Perhaps," she admits. She extricates her hand from the tight grip of his fingers and gently rubs his arm. "But you shouldn't have them, either."

"I can't stop them, though. But I can stop thee from having them, by not tellin' thee."

"I think if you wish to talk about anything, you should. And I'll always listen."

They fall silent again. She continues to rub his good arm soothingly, unconsciously, before she notices a few minutes later that his gaze is pointedly fixed on her right shoulder. The wrap has slid down off of her arm, taking the cap sleeve of her nightdress down a few inches as well.

Instantly, it feels as though whatever spell they were under has broken, and a different spell has formed; she is immediately shy at the fact that she hasn't noticed her bare shoulder before now. She briefly wonders how improper it is for her to be in his bedroom in the middle of the night, even though nothing has happened. And then she becomes angry with herself, for nothing _has_ happened, and no one has caught her, and no one will ever know she was here, except for Dickon, so it doesn't matter at all if he sees her bare shoulder. And besides, the way he is staring at her makes her feel different...special.

Nervously, but without moving, she whispers, "Do you want me to sing to you? That always helped Colin to go back to sleep."

His eyes immediately snap back to hers, and she momentarily stares at him, transfixed by the depth of his gaze.

"Aye," he whispers hoarsely. "I'd like that."

"Close your eyes," she breathes.

He does as she asks without hesitation, and she begins to sing a song she learned when she was a child; a song her Ayah taught her when she became fretful in India. A song she will never quite forget, no matter how many years pass. His breathing slows and becomes easier, and his body relaxes. She continues to sing softly, liltingly, unable to take her eyes away from him; unable to stop staring at the man she loves.

Only when she hears the clock bong four o'clock somewhere in the depths of the house does her voice slowly trail off. She waits a few moments to make certain that he is asleep, before she slides carefully from the bed. She pauses and watches him a fraction of a second longer, and then leans over and shyly brushes her lips against his, whispers _sweet dreams_ , before she takes her candle and noiselessly slips out of the room.

However, she does not notice his eyes flutter open to watch her leave. He focuses on the pale white of her shoulder still visible above the wrap, and sighs again.


	15. Drops of Jupiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon continue their nightly conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Train, released in 2001.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Drops of Jupiter

****

It becomes a habit.

Every night, Mary Lennox wakes up around three o'clock in the morning, gets out of bed, and pads down the corridors until she reaches Dickon Sowerby's room. Sometimes he is sleeping peacefully when she arrives – in which case, she eventually returns to her own bed for the rest of the night without waking him. But more often than not, she discovers that he is locked in a nightmare or already awake and waiting for her.

It is strange, she thinks. _During the day_ , they do not talk of the war if they can help it. _During the day_ , Mary reads to him, or helps him walk down the halls for exercise. They sit in his room and talk about the moor and the garden, or he rests, or Mrs. Sowerby drops by to visit her son and check on his progress, or Doctor Craven stops in to see his patient. But Dickon never, _ever_ tells her anything about his experiences in France _during the day_ , nor does she dare to mention such things _during the day_ if she can help it.

But at night, it is as though they are the only two people in the world, let alone in the dark, empty house. Sometimes it even seems as though they are children again, because their nightly discussions are nothing more than just that – discussions. They don't do anything except sit together and talk in soft whispers. And somehow, this makes all the difference, because it isn't _during the day_. It is almost surreal, almost dream-like. Dickon opens up, even if he does so rather hesitatingly. But he at least tells her briefly of his nightmares, or else something that happened to him while he was in France. He never goes into much detail, but Mary listens without interrupting for the most part, because she remembers that it helped Colin to talk about what he feared the most too, years ago.

And every night ends the same as that first night, no matter how many nights wear on. Mary offers to sing Dickon to sleep, and Dickon pretends to fall asleep to please her. After ten minutes or so, she trails off, waits to make certain that he is no longer awake, before she rises, pauses, bends, and brushes her lips lightly against his in a chaste kiss. She whispers _sweet dreams_ , and takes her candle and returns to her bedroom. She remains completely ignorant that he rarely falls asleep at all while she sings to him, and that he always waits desperately for that one moment when her mouth brushes against his. It is as though he can't quite believe she's real _during the night_ , and perhaps that is why he talks to her about the horrors of what he witnessed in France during these strange hours, and his current fears of being unable to integrate back into English life again now that he is home.

But everything changes abruptly one night in December, the day Colin is due home.

It is two weeks before Christmas; they are having a long, dead-of-the-night discussion about the first time he killed a man. It is more difficult for him to talk about than anything he has told her thus far; he is pale throughout the entire tale, which he keeps short and to the point. He trembles; even his voice shakes as he tells her how he cried for an hour afterwards, in silence, because he didn't want any of his comrades to know how upset he was by the incident. Because he was positive that beautiful Mary Lennox would never wish to speak to him again if she knew he had stabbed a man to death with a bayonet to save his own life.

She listens, as usual, in silence, willing herself not to cry _for_ him. But when he stops talking, she reaches up and brushes her soft fingertips to his cheeks, drying the tracks his tears have made. It is the only other time he has cried while talking to her, since the first discussion they had regarding his friend Carroll. He watches her like a child as she does this, as though he doesn't understand why she is doing it. Why she is even still here, still listening.

She sits back and smiles once she is finished, and asks in a quiet, soft voice if he should like her to sing him to sleep, as she always does.

He swallows and nods, still child-like, and she begins to sing, soft and gentle, until his eyelids flutter closed and his breathing becomes even again.

When she believes he is asleep, she rises, hesitates, bends, and brushes her mouth briefly to his.

Only this time, she gasps loudly when his free hand suddenly snakes behind her neck to keep her in place, and his lips open against hers.

For a split second, the shock of the change in their routine freezes both of them.

An irrational part of Dickon's mind realizes that Mary's nightly visits _are_ real.

And for the first time, Mary realizes that Dickon never fell asleep any of the previous nights, but always waited for that one moment when her lips touched his.

But before she can push away and stare at him, or question him, his tongue traces against her lips in need, and Mary gasps again as something odd and fluttery bursts within her. She manages to catch herself with her palm against the mattress before she can sink against his broken ribs and cause him physical pain.

She hears the deep, satisfied groan in his throat when she opens to him, and she feels his hand twist convulsively in her mused hair, drawing her closer. Her fingertips hurriedly graze his cheek and his jaw; she shifts to angle her mouth against his, sliding up his body by leveraging on the mattress, needing something more, something _deeper_. Her skin is hot and becoming even more feverish as her free hand works into his wavy curls and against his scalp, needing him as her anchor, because everything is too deep and hungry and aching not to hold on to him.

And then, quite suddenly, they break apart, and nearly at the same time.

For a few seconds, they stare at each other as the realization of what they are doing sinks in. Almost immediately, Mary sits up abruptly and slides off of the bed. Dickon watches her closely as she takes the candle in her shaking hands.

"I should... go back to bed," she whispers.

He nods just slightly. "Aye," he whispers back, his voice low and hoarse. "P'rhaps tha should."

She turns to leave, but pauses at the door to look back at him. He is watching her with an intense expression, his eyes fixed on the sleeve of her nightdress, where it has shifted down her arm to reveal her shoulder. Mary slowly realizes that it wasn't that way before; she has been making certain that her wrap is properly about her before entering his room each night, after that first evening when it slipped down and captured his attention. ...Which means that he must have pushed it down himself tonight, just moments ago. And as soon as she thinks this, she suddenly _does_ remember feeling his rough fingers caressing her skin there, because it nearly burned and she wanted more.

She blushes fiercely, for she suddenly cannot sort her feelings at all – she is both elated and excited, and yet exceedingly nervous and shy. So she stammers, "Good night", and quickly slips into the corridor.

Dickon says nothing. He merely watches her leave, his eyes unreadable. He never expected to bare his heart to Mary about what he witnessed in the war, but he has. And, more startlingly still, she hasn't left him for it.

Perhaps that was why he kissed her the way he did: Because Mary allowed him to purge the bad, so the good Magic that Colin is always going on about can start to work within him.

Strange, he thinks. For he only _thought_ he loved her when they were younger. Now, he it seems he truly does.


	16. If I Should Fall from Grace with God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon and Colin discuss Mary's nightly visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Pogues, released in 1987.
> 
> ~BD

****

## If I Should Fall from Grace with God

****

"I... I kissed her."

"Is _that_ all? Am I supposed to be surprised?"

"Well, it isn' quite wha' tha thinks."

"What is it, then?"

"She's been coming in here every night. Round three in th' morning, or so."

A myriad of expressions flit across Colin Craven's face, starting with anger, realization, fading into thoughtfulness, and ending with confusion and annoyance.

"When you say _every night_...?" he asks, his voice deliberately slow.

"I don' rightly remember how it started, t' tell thee th' truth. She jus' came in one night, an' woke me from a nightmare, an' I started tellin' her about some o' th' things I saw in France. Tha told me it would be good for me, when we were waitin' for th' train at Victoria. An' I think it might 'ave been. I couldn' tell her during th' day it seemed, but it was different at night. Only, don' tell her I've told thee; she might be upset if she knew that tha knew..."

"I won't say anything. What happened then?"

"She started comin' every night after that, 'round th' same time, an' she would jus' sit on th' bed an' listen t' me talk o' the war. It was strange; it always seemed as though it were a dream. It was easier t' talk when it was dark, an' feelin' as though we were th' only two people in th' world. An' each night, b'fore she left, she would ask me if I should like her t' sing me back t' sleep, because it helped thee when tha couldn' sleep, so she thought it mightn' help me, too."

"Did it?"

"No." He smiles ruefully, yet bemused at the same time. "Her voice was too pretty for me t' sleep."

"God. Spare me the details." Colin shudders, pretending to look revolted.

"Eh, there aren' any other details. Not as t' what _tha's_ thinkin', least ways. When she thought I'd fallen asleep, she would get up, kiss me verra lightly, an' then she'd leave. Like Mother would, when I was little."

"Is that all? You made it sound like something dreadfully important or awful, you know! And damn it, did _I_ ever get gypped! She never kissed me after she sang _me_ to sleep!"

"Well, there _is_ one more thing..." he adds guiltily. "I never let her know I was awake when she kissed me. But last night... Well, last night, I soart o'... kissed her back."

Colin's eyebrows arch slightly.

"I admit it was improper. But I couldn' help it. An' she kissed _me_ back, so..."

"Oh, _there's_ a huge surprise. Did you ever doubt that Mary loves you?"

"Well... Aye, a little," he says hastily. "While I was in France, some. An' t'day, p'rhaps. See, after a few mom'nts we broke apart an' she left quick-like, an' I haven' seen her but once t'day, when she came in t' tell me tha'd arrived home again. I think she mightn' be angry with me. P'rhaps I shouldn' 'ave done anything."

"She's not angry with you, she's just embarrassed, I imagine. For the first time in an entire month, she realized she probably shouldn't have been going to see the man she loves in the middle of the night, in his bedroom, even _if_ it was just to talk about the war. It's just like her to do something and then later decide it's probably not the best idea she ever had. She's a girl, you know. It takes them longer to sort things out, sometimes."

His brows knit. "Soart out what?"

"Things," Colin says grimly, without really explaining at all. "Just...anything, really. And if that's all that happened, I'm not sure why you feel the need to confess it, least of all to _me_."

"I was hopin' tha could tell me what I should do."

"Marry the bloody girl, for heaven's sake – and preferably _before_ you get her pregnant."

It is surprising, Colin thinks a while later, how quickly a wounded soldier with healing ribs can grab a pillow with his free arm and throw it rather hard, and with perfect accuracy, across a large bedroom, at a quickly moving target. If it were anything but a pillow, he actually thinks his shoulder might have smarted from the strike.

But, at least the former soldier is gaining his strength back, and for that, Colin is grateful. It might be worth it to tease him further on the subject of Mary Lennox, just to monitor the healing process. And he laughs aloud at the thought, for he knows his father, uncle, and cousin would wholeheartedly disagree with _this_ idea.


	17. Fixing a Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Colin have a discussion about Dickon's war experiences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Beatles, released in 1967.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Fixing a Hole

****

The snow crunches icily beneath Colin and Mary's feet as they move down the various garden paths towards the ivy walk, their paces brisk in order to stay warm.

They have not spoken to each other since Mrs. Sowerby entered Dickon's room to visit her son again, and they politely left, in order to give the two time together alone. They simply ended up in coats and scarves, and headed outside together to pass the time until they would be needed inside again. Their destination never needed to be mentioned, for they both knew where they were going.

It is not until they pass the fountain garden that they begin to talk – almost as if they were already in the middle of a conversation.

"How have you been?" Colin asks quietly.

"Well," she concedes. "As well as one could expect. How has London been the past month?"

"Dreary." He smiles. "You _know_ that winter in London is rarely pleasant. On top of which, I've had to endure dozens of our mutual acquaintances demanding to know where the lovely Miss Mary Lennox has disappeared to." He pauses, then says in a casual voice, "I've told them all that you eloped."

She stops abruptly and stares at him, aghast. He merely grins back sheepishly. They are at the top of the long walk, and so the only sound is the ice-coated ivy as the tendrils scratch against each other softly in the bitter breeze.

Finally, she sputters, "You should know better than to start such rumors, Colin. By January, God only _knows_ what they'll be saying!"

He laughs. "And you know perfectly well that I'm only teasing you! I've actually been telling them that you returned to Yorkshire for the holiday to tend to a sick friend. They haven't asked further questions and, to be honest, most of them thought it was very sweet and kind of you. They probably won't even realize you're really gone until next autumn, I'll wager."

"I'm hardly concerned with that," she sniffs.

"Then you shouldn't be concerned with rumors, either." He chuckles as she glares at him, and he pushes the ice-slick ivy away from the wooden door to the garden. She reaches around him to thrust the key into the lock; it takes a moment to get the frozen handle to twist, but it finally does, and they enter together.

For a moment, they gaze quietly across the silent garden, which is covered in a crunchy mixture of ice and snow. Everything is perfectly smooth and even, the plants dormant beneath winter's chill, the whiteness unmarred except for the tiny tracks of birds and little animals.

After almost a full minute, he asks quietly, "Well? What have you found out?"

"Quite a bit," she replies softly.

They are silent for another minute, before Colin begins to walk. Mary falls into step beside him, and they slowly follow the well-known paths around the perimeter.

"Quite a bit?" He lifts his eyes towards the gray sky. "That's something."

"It is, especially considering that he never goes into much detail."

"A little is better than nothing. I'm glad of that."

"Yes, I quite agree. He's told me of the friends he made on the lines; the ones he watched die, and the ones who were still alive before he was wounded. He sometimes tells of the shelling, or how horrible the trenches were...how you freeze in winter and burn in summer, or how when it rains everything turns to mud and it slides into your clothes and boots, and it's nothing like getting dirty in the garden or out on the moor. He's told me a little about being ordered to take opposing trenches in assaults, and role call afterwards. How ominous it was when names were called and there was no answer, and you knew that person must be dead. How planes would come in and how machine gunners were killed in their nests, or else brought down the enemy pilots." She hesitates, and adds, "He... He also told me of the first time he killed a man. That was particularly difficult for him to relate; harder than anything else he's told me thus far."

"I imagine that it was," he says darkly. "But, I think it is all a great help. The experiment seems to be working well."

She stops walking and frowns at him. "Experiment? You consider this another one of your experiments, do you?"

"Well, yes. It's quite interesting, and –"

"He's a human being, Colin! He's not an experiment! Furthermore, he's our friend!"

Pacifyingly, he says, "Mary, listen to me. He needs to talk of these things so they won't keep mulling over in his head all of the time. It's just as I was, when you brought me out of my room, here! So in a way, it _is_ an experiment – to see if it works for him as it did for me. Has he told you how he was wounded, yet?"

She glares at him a moment longer, before she inhales sharply and continues, "Yes, he has. He was on rotation, and stationed on the second line. A German shell exploded close to where he was standing. It hit an eighteen-pounder and sent pieces flying in every direction. Part of it hit him and four other men; it killed two of them instantly. The shrapnel from the explosion hit most of the others first, too; he only got a light spray and he was able to get his arm up in front of him when he realized it was going to happen. Part of the gun itself caught him right in the middle, and that was how his ribs broke. At least, that's what he _thinks_ happened. He did say it was all rather a blur, because it happened so fast. And he said that afterwards, he crawled over to two of the others to check on them, even though he was badly wounded. Both were dead. He said that was one of the worst things about the whole war – seeing a dead man's face. One of them just had a blank expression, eyes wide open and blood all over him from where the gun or shrapnel had struck him in the forehead, and the other had caught most of the shrapnel in the chest, because he was torn completely apart and Dickon could see everything inside. He said he blacked out at that point. Not that he had never seen someone ripped open like that, but because it was too much at one time. He woke up in a field hospital, vomiting because the pain was so intense."

He remains impassive as she relates this tale, noting her perfectly calm, almost blank expression. It must be terribly difficult for her to hear about these sorts things, and he wonders if it is giving her nightmares.

"And how are you?" he asks abruptly. "Honestly."

"You asked me that on the way here, and I told you that I am well."

"Yes, you said you were well. But still, hearing about all of this must be difficult for you."

She shrugs, almost too lightly. "I'm perfectly fine, Colin. Besides, who else would he tell?"

"Me. Father. Doctor Craven – after all, he would take it all medically, without being too horrified by the details. Jemmy Pickfore just returned from the war four months ago without his left arm, amputated all the way to his shoulder, and yet he's helping Roach about the place where he can. He would understand what Dickon went through."

Her face has become stubborn and closed at this list. "I'd rather he tell me, thank you."

He goes on, conversationally, just to see her reaction. "It's really rather macabre, don't you think?"

Her face pales to the point that she is almost as white as their surroundings. " _Stop it_ , Colin. I _know_ what you're doing. I'm also one of your little _experiments_ ; you want to see how I'm taking these stories, don't you? Well I'm perfectly fine!"

"Are you? This isn't anything like India, Mary. You never witnessed people actually dying yourself, and cholera didn't leave human bodies ripped open."

"Stop it," she hisses furiously.

"You compartmentalize," he murmurs, curious. "Like I do."

"Of course I do! How else would I deal with it?"

"You aren't going to tell Dickon how it really makes you feel, are you?"

He can practically see the images of war playing in her head, based on Dickon's tales. But she is still resolute. "Absolutely not. And neither are _you_. This is helpful for both of us – Dickon, because it gets it out of his head, and me, because it allows me to connect to him in a way that I must, if I'm to marry him. I will not be his wife without trying to understand this part of his life! No matter how awful it is. If I didn't stand by him in all things, then I wouldn't be fulfilling my end, would I?"

"I'm not sure marriage is entirely like that."

"Excuse me?"

"Call me idealistic, but marriage is the one thing I'm not sure I'd want to constantly compartmentalize. A lot of men do, and I think it's rather stupid of them. It makes them rather cold and unfeeling."

"I'm only doing it right now in order to cope with it!"

He chuckles. "Probably best. I don't need you fainting and falling apart on us."

" _You_." Her voice has a hint of annoyance to it. "Not everything is about _you_ , Colin."

"I didn't say it was! Right now, everything needs to be about Dickon. But still, father is growing older, and if something happens to him, then what goes on at Misselthwaite _will_ be my concern; more so than it is now."

"I don't know where to be proud of you for accepting the responsibility, or irritated with you for everything else."

He grins. "I'd rather you be proud of me. I'm quite proud of you, you know. You are doing what a lot of girls couldn't possibly do."

Her expression does not soften. Instead, she asks, "Have you been able to locate any information on Phil?"

And instantly, his grin fades. "No. I've tried, but unfortunately, most men – especially at the war offices – see me as only a boy who just has turned eighteen. And someone who hasn't served in the military. Which makes it worse."

"I was afraid of that. Mrs. Sowerby has not heard anything, either."

"All we can hope is that, with the armistice in effect, news will come soon enough."

She nods, miserably. "He never asks about Phil, you know. But I know he must worry for him."

There is a long stretch of silence as they gaze about the garden; then, abruptly, Colin says, "We'd best get back. It's freezing out. And besides, Dickon thinks you're upset with him."

"Upset with him?" Her brow furrows slightly. "What on earth for?"

"I don't know," he answers evasively, as they begin to trek across the lawn to the door again. "Something between the two of you, I imagine. He just said he thought you were upset with him because you've hardly been to see him in two days."

She blushes slightly, despite the cold. "I'll speak with him. I'm certainly not upset with him."

"Fancy a game of chess later?"

She does not question the random change in subject; she only smiles up at him coyly. "Only if you wish to lose again."

He laughs. "Maybe not this time, Mary!"

"Hm. We'll see about that."

And together, they leave the garden and turn back for the mansion.


	18. Bless the Broken Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon have another nightly discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Rascal Flatts, released in 2004.
> 
> If you haven't guessed, my music taste is fairly diverse, but I do prefer oldies to anything else.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Bless the Broken Road

****

"They used t' tell me that I had a sixth sense while I was on th' lines..."

She grins at him. "That's because you do. Anyone could have told you that. Well, perhaps not Mrs. Medlock - but anyone else."

It seems like it's been forever since he's actually smiled, but it makes his entire face look different. Less hollow, somehow. It makes his eyes sparkle; they seem more cobalt-blue than navy-black, and it makes the dimple in his right cheek appear - the one she adored so as a child.

"I don' know I'd call it that. 'Tis jus' knowin' things, is all. Everyone could know th' same things as I do, if they jus' stopped t' listen an' watch."

"So why did the soldiers think it?"

"They said it was because of how I always seemed t' be listening t' things other than what they could hear." His brow furrows slightly. "I don' know that I knew anything special once we were ov'r th' top, though; you canna possibly know which way t' move without getting' killed with all th' rounds goin' off." He pauses, then adds, "Half th' time, they'd fetch me t' patch up minor wounds while th' medics were handlin' th' worst cases. One man said I bound his leg as though he were a baby, as though I cared about nothin' else in the world except that."

"Comes from rescuing lambs out on the moor, I expect."

He sighs and smiles again. "Eh, but I will be glad when spring comes. T' be on th' moor, runnin' about... A few months ago, I didn' think I'd ever see it again."

The clock suddenly announces the hour from the floor below, and Mary jumps slightly when she hears it. As the bongs fade, she pulls her wrapper about her more closely, her eyes gazing distantly at the door. "It's awfully late. I should return to my own room," she murmurs.

"I was afraid," he hesitates, "that tha wouldn' be back again. After..." His voice trails off.

She flushes, but smiles shyly. "You simply caught me off guard the other night, is all. That doesn't mean I didn't... enjoy it." She pauses, then adds dolefully, "Still, I fear it is probably improper for me to come here so late. And Colin is far too observant; he'll notice, eventually. Would you be upset if we had our conversations during the day, instead?" There is a worried edge to her voice, concern that he will hate this idea.

But, to her surprise, he smiles and says, "Perhaps so. I thank thee for all th' nights tha _has_ come, though. It... it's helped. It may still be a long while b'fore I feel mesel' again, but... it isn't quite as bad knowin' that tha and Colin will listen."

"We always will, you know."

She rises, leans over, and kisses him softly. He sighs against her lips, but after a couple of seconds he shifts, changing the angle. Mary whimpers and he cups her cheek, slowly moving his mouth against hers. And when she starts to draw back, his body actually rises a few inches from the bed in an attempt to follow her mouth, despite the angry twitch he feels in his ribs.

She pushes him gently back onto the bed, giggling quietly as she does so. "Dickon Sowerby, you'll hurt those ribs if you try t' get up without my help," she says in broad Yorkshire. "An' I need tha t' get well!"

He grins. "Tha doesn' do me any favors when tha kisses me like that, I assure thee!"

"Then perhaps I shouldn' kiss thee!"

The smile deepens in his eyes. "Only means tha'll be more eager for me when I marry thee, tha knows."

Her cheeks turn pink at the implication. "You haven't even proposed _yet_. Good _night_ , Dickon."

And, without another word, she sashays out of the room, leaving him grinning after her.


	19. One More Sleep 'til Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin, Mary and Dickon celebrate Christmas 1918.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from the Muppet movie "A Muppet Christmas Carol", sung by Kermit the Frog, but it's one of my favorite Christmas movies.
> 
> ~BD

****

## One More Sleep 'til Christmas

****

The drawing room looks like a Victorian postcard.

A Christmas tree sparkles in the corner, covered in tiny gold and red glass ornaments. There are several presents glinting beneath it, wrapped in shiny paper. The mantel is covered in boughs of holly and fir, all intertwined with red ribbon and set with tall white candles in silver holders. A merry fire dances within the hearth, and upon the lace-covered table are delicacies he has never seen before: cookies and tarts and cakes and candies and peppermint sticks, a small bowl of punch and a silver hot chocolate service.

Mary and Colin grin from either side of him, watching his reaction.

"What is all this?" he stammers in bewilderment. After all, it is ten o'clock in the evening, and Colin has made him dress in his finest for this, just as he was ready to go to bed.

Colin laughs and helps him to the sofa, in front of the cheerful fire. "Christmas, of course! Just between us. Father wasn't feeling very well and went to bed early, so I managed to talk Cook into fixing us an evening nightcap. Mary and I will have Christmas with him tomorrow instead, and your family will come and see you then as well. But for now, it's just the three of us."

He watches in wonder as Colin tosses another log on the fire, and Mary smiles brightly as she hands him a cup of hot chocolate and sets another aside for her cousin.

"Shall we have some music?" Colin asks eagerly.

He does not have a chance to respond; his friend has immediately gone to put a record on the phonograph; a moment later, the sounds of an orchestra playing Christmas music fills the room. Colin quickly returns to the table to help Mary with the plates of food, and brings Dickon one.

They sit on either side of him, and begin pointing out which treats are the tastiest. He cannot quite believe it is Christmas, as they laugh so happily together. He vaguely remembers his last Christmas – a truly horrible one. Nothing like sitting in a cozy, dimly lit drawing room while snow falls in heavy, thick flakes outside the window, covering Yorkshire in a blanket of white. He knows which type of Christmas he prefers, as the hot chocolate sends a spread of warmth to his toes and the sugary candy melts in his mouth.

Beside him, Colin seems oblivious to Dickon's thoughtful quietness, as he examines one of the Christmas pies. He remarks how incredible Cook is at her art, and asks Mary if she doesn't agree. He is dressed in a suit, looking more like a man than Dickon has ever seen.

On his other side, Mary giggles as Colin takes a huge bite from said pie. She is far more lady-like than her cousin tonight; her burgundy dress spills around her ankles on the floor like a pool of wine, and shows off how perfect her figure is. It hangs off her shoulders and dips low against her breasts, revealing smooth, soft swells that leave a stuck feeling in his throat that has absolutely nothing to do with holiday sweets.

He quickly diverts his gaze to the thin china plate in his hand before Mary notices. It has been nearly two months since he was wounded on the lines in France, and yet, it feels as though it were a million years ago tonight, while he sits here with two friends. It feels as there is nothing else in the world except the _here_ and _now_. It is amazing, he thinks, as Mary rises to pour punch for them, her long dress trailing just behind her on the expensive Persian rug, with the Christmas music warbling from the phonograph in the corner, how utterly perfect this moment is. How he doesn't want it to end.

"Presents!" Colin says suddenly, jumping up. "We should open presents, Mary!"

"Oh, yes! Pass them around, would you?"

He thinks nothing of presents, until Colin places a small, bright red package with a silver bow upon his lap and says, "This one is for you, from Mary, I believe."

"No, tha shouldn' 'ave –" he starts, but Colin cuts him off.

"And this one is from me to you, and this one is to me from Mary." He places his own package beside his chair and returns to the tree.

"This one is from me _to_ Mary," he continues, handing her a small green package as she hands Dickon a cup of punch. "And this one is to Mary from Lady Willingham."

Mary takes this gift with a cute wrinkle to her nose. "Did she give you one, too?"

"Yes, Lord Willingham gave me my gift before I left. New cufflinks." Colin shrugs. "Nothing spectacular, really."

She shakes her head slightly and places this gift without thought upon the floor, and then turns to beam at Dickon. "Open one of yours first!" she insists.

He stares from one cousin to the other, but they are both watching him eagerly, and so he fumbles to open the gift Colin has given him. It is a large box, and difficult to open since his left arm has not completely healed yet. When he finally pulls the lid off however, he stammers in shock.

"A new coat!" Colin says, though the gift is entirely self-explanatory. "You can't wear that field jacket now that you're home; it would be dreadful! And your old moor coat is likely too small. So I thought it would be quite practical, you see! This one is lined with fleece, so it should be good and warm, and it should fit – we're nearly the same size, so I had my tailor make it to the specifications I got out of your field jacket and off of one of my coats."

"No, Colin. 'Tis too much," he protests. "You shouln' 'ave –!"

But they won't hear any of his protests.

"Mary, you've got two, so why don't you open one of yours since I've only got the one?"

"Very well, I'll open Lady Willingham's and get it out of the way."

The silver paper comes off neatly, and Mary holds up several fancy, embroidered handkerchiefs with her initials on them. She grins in a slightly bemused way. "As if I needed them! But I suppose it is the thought that counts."

"Right up there with cufflinks," Colin chortles.

"They're probably a bit irritated with us, the way we ran out of the dining room in October."

"Ah, well. Open mine next, Mary."

Mary picks up Colin's package, which is almost as large like Dickon's was, and carefully takes off the gold paper. When she opens the box, she cries out in delight.

"Colin, you shouldn't have!"

Dickon leans over to see what her cousin has given her, and to his surprise it appears to be a set of garden tools and seed packets.

Colin laughs. "I thought since you've returned to Yorkshire, you might need new ones! Goodness knows where your old ones disappeared. You probably left them in the garden, and they're likely rusted over by now. I'll buy you some new plants this spring, too."

"I can't wait to use them! Go on, open mine, Colin."

Colin grins at her and pulls off the green paper in a hurry; his gift from Mary turns out to be a set of books he had apparently wanted, and he eagerly begins to flip through them after exclaiming his thanks.

Mary stops him before he can get too engrossed, insisting that it's Dickon's turn to open her gift next, and Colin sheepishly puts his books upon the table beside him.

Fingers trembling, Dickon carefully pulls the red paper and silver bow away from Mary's small package, feeling slightly nervous – if Colin gave him an expensive new coat, there is no telling what Mary has given him.

She holds her breath and twists her fingers together on her lap, he notices, as he pulls out a small, dark brown box with a bronzed clasp. Carefully, he clicks it open and lifts the hinged lid.

But he still isn't prepared for what lies within.

He knows he is staring, and he cannot find words to thank her or even tell her it is too much.

Mary leans over, brushing her long, swirling curls behind her shoulder to gaze down at what she has given him. Softly, she says, "I thought thee might could use it."

A beautiful golden pocket watch – like what a gentleman would wear – twinkles in the firelight.

"Give it here," Colin says, grinning. "I'll set it and wind it for thee."

"I... I don' know wha' t' say," he whispers.

Mary whispers back, in his ear. "You needn't say anything. Do you like it?"

"Aye..." His throat is stuck again. "Verra much. Eh, I have both o' thee gifts too, but they aren' anything like... like what tha's both given t' me." Embarrassed, he points beneath the tree. "The brown package belongs to thee, Colin. Martha was kind enow t' wrap it for me th' other day. An' put it b'neath th' tree, too."

Colin excitedly jumps from his chair to get his package from Dickon. Moments later, he pulls back the brown paper, and his eyes light brightly when he sees what he has received.

"Dickon! This is perfect!"

"I... I thought tha might like it."

Colin quickly shows Mary the book Dickon has given him – a book, in French, about French and Italian inventions.

"I'm sure you'll have all of your new books read by tomorrow, Colin," she teases.

"I'm going to start this one right now. It will be more challenging because it is in French, but fortunately, I know French very well – unlike some people, who didn't want to learn a second language."

Mary says in a carefree voice, "Yorkshire _is_ a second language. Mrs. Kittlebaum was silly not to understand that."

They all giggle at this, and Colin puts his new book aside to change the record.

Dickon looks at Mary, and reaches into his pocket shyly.

"I didn' have time t' wrap tha present nicely, as tha wrapped mine. I didn' want Martha t' see it." He hands her a small, coarse brown paper package, which fits neatly into her palm. "But I hope tha likes it, all th' same."

Nervously, he watches as Mary carefully unwraps it, her fingers gently twisting the paper off, until she gasps and her body tenses. He sees the smile reach her eyes before it reaches her mouth, and he knows there was no need to be nervous at all.

"I hope that's a ring of some sort," Colin calls from the corner of the room, as he sets the needle on the new record.

"Yes," Mary whispers. "Oh, Dickon. Thank you."

She glances once at Colin's turned back, before she leans in and kisses him swiftly on the corner of his mouth.

Then, before he has quite registered this, she slides it upon her ring finger on her left hand, smiling down as she twists her hand to admire the glimmer of gold in the firelight.

"I... I bought it in Paris," he explains, mesmerized. "At a little shop that sold all soarts o' things. I didn' want Martha t' wrap it, because I wanted thee t' be th' first person t' see it. It isn' anything fancy or expensive, as what tha's used t', but... I thought thee mightn' like the flowers etched in it."

"I love it. I truly love it," she whispers, leaning closer.

"Excuse me, I _am_ still in the room," Colin says, with slight irritation.

"Oh! Colin, I am sorry! Would you like some more punch?" Mary rises immediately and takes his cup, heading for the table.

Colin takes the chance, while her back is turned, to grin and wink at Dickon in a way that clearly means, _well done_.

They pass the rest of the night talking and laughing comfortably about all sorts of things, about Christmases and snow and Saint Nicolas; eating the rest of the sweets and cakes, playing more records, until suddenly the mantel clock begins to chime the hour.

Surprised at how much time has passed, they stop and stare at it, all of them falling silent, transfixed by the sound. The tiny bells match the grandfather clock in the entrance hall, creating an odd mix of sound.

_One_

They draw their breath collectively.

_Two_

Colin begins to smile.

_Three_

He realizes he is smiling, too.

_Four_

Mary bites a small part of her lower lip, also smiling; her chest tight because she is still holding her breath.

_Five_

The house is utterly silent, except for the clocks. Everyone else must be asleep.

_Six_

Colin leans forward slightly, staring avidly at the hands pointing straight up to the ceiling.

_Seven_

The fire gutters as a log collapses, turning the rippling flames to glowing embers.

_Eight_

He becomes aware that Mary has slipped her soft hand into his. He can feel the coolness of the ring against his fingers, and he hopes again that she likes it, even though it is worthless in value as compared to what a man of her own rank could give her.

_Nine_

She squeezes his fingers gently, and he feels emotion welling in his chest.

_Ten_

He squeezes back.

_Eleven_

He glances at her, wanting her to be the first thing he sees this particularly wonderful Christmas morning.

_Twelve_

The three of them are silent for another full minute, as the chimes faded away and the fire crackles in the grate.

Then Colin whispers, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Mary whispers back.

"Merry Christmas," Dickon murmurs, glancing between the two.

And he knows this one is surely the merriest of all.


	20. One Day at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Colin exchange letters during Winter, 1919.

****

## One Day at a Time

****

_Dear Colin,_

_I've never known anyone else who could sound so impatient in a mere letter! You've been gone for only three weeks and yet you seem to think that nagging me will facilitate my marrying Dickon sooner. Contrary to your popular belief, it won't. Dickon and I have discussed the matter in great detail (probably even more than you can fathom, Colin, as we're with each other nearly every minute of every day), and we've decided to wait until summer at the very least, just as I told you in my previous letter._

_There are several reasons for this decision, the primary being that Dickon hasn't entirely healed. Doctor Craven stopped by yesterday and was concerned with the ribs on the left side; they seem to be taking longer than he expected and they still cause Dickon occasional, though minor pain. His arm seems to be healed completely however, and I'm quite grateful for it. Doctor Craven feels it will be beneficial for him to lift small objects, and gradually increase his muscle strength again, so I've been helping him with that the past few days. The trouble is, he can't lift anything over two or three pounds, because his ribs still ache. Still, a little is better than nothing._

_Nor can we venture outside yet, for it's still far too cold and bitter. My only consolation is that winter in Yorkshire is infinitely more beautiful than winter in London, despite the temperature. The moor is solid white, but I know that within a week it will all melt into freezing slush, which will be incredibly dreary. At least won't be dark brown like slush is in the city. Furthermore, Doctor Craven refuses to allow Dickon outside until the weather turns warmer, and I do agree with him on that point. It wouldn't do for Dickon to catch cold now, when he's progressing so well. I'm certain his ribs will be healed in another month._

_Once spring arrives, I intend to take him to the garden straightaway. I've missed it so, and I know he has as well. I suppose this is another reason for our delay: we want to experience the garden and the moor one more springtime, just once more, before we marry. And I think it will do Dickon good to wait, for he still needs to heal inside. Surely you remember your little "experiment"? You may read that with sarcasm, Colin Craven._

_We also need to find a suitable home, and I confess that I'm a bit concerned about where we shall live. Dickon believes he remembers a cottage a mile or so away, up in the dales, but his memory falters sometimes these days, as he hasn't been on the moor in two years. Worse, I haven't had time to research local properties in the library and it's still too harsh outside to scamper about the country trying to find a place we could make our own. Spring will be the best time to investigate and compile a list of nearby locations – which ones would be best and those that can be ruled out._

_So, once summer arrives, all of this will hopefully be in the past, I think both of us shall be ready to marry then – likely in the garden, if we can, for it is so dear to all of us. Mrs. Sowerby thinks it is an excellent idea, and even Uncle Archie agrees it would be lovely there. I think he is slowly coming around; he admired my ring the other morning at breakfast, commenting how it caught the light. I must confess that I love it so much more than diamonds or other gemstone jewelry, for when you really stop and think about love, it must be something simple and real, and not something flashy and showy. I'm sure Dickon didn't think about that when he bought the ring, but I love it for that reason, and I told Uncle as much._

_On an entirely different note: You mentioned in your last letter that Fredrick Asbury had asked you to accompany him and several friends to tour the Lake District this May, and I encourage you to do so. I've heard the lakes are just as beautiful as the dales of Yorkshire, and I think you would enjoy it. You must keep a diary if you go, for I should adore hearing all about it. I cannot believe I have never seen them myself! It is not far out of the way, but Uncle was always taking us other places whilst we were growing up. Further, out of all of your friends, I must say I liked Freddie the best; he was always polite, he has a keen intellect and wit, and he's sensible._

_As for the appalling tale you related regarding Grace however... If I did not know the girl personally, I would never have believed it. You can do better than her, Colin. For one thing, the child is only fourteen and secondly, if Lady Willingham knew she'd snuck into your private rooms to try and poke through your things or catch a glimpse of you, she would be horrified that her daughter had even thought of such things! Personally, I never did like her very much; she giggles excessively and she was always ogling you in such a blatant fashion. (And the Willinghams thought we were too bold? Heaven help them!) I do hope you've informed her not to paw through your belongings any more, or peek at you while you are "less than properly attired". It simply isn't done! (Or it wouldn't have been five years ago...are times changing that much?) Goodness, but I do sound very much like Uncle Archie, I fear! I won't tell him my feelings on the matter, for I'm sure he'd have something to say about it (a lecture, no doubt). But Grace has too much growing to do, and you deserve someone better, someone more mature, someone older and more sensible. Doesn't Freddie have a sister?_

_I'm going to force myself to end here, for you know I could go on and on for pages! But then what would be left to write about later in the week? And besides, Dickon has rested enough today, and I should help him walk down the hall this afternoon. He goes further each day; we made a complete circuit of the first floor yesterday, and I'm sure today will reveal further progress in his healing. Perhaps we shall venture to the second floor and explore a bit. That may sound childish, but we are still young, are we not?_

_My regards to the Willinghams (minus Grace, this time). Please stay safe and well in London,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mary_


	21. Every Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Colin exchange letters, Winter 1919

****

## Every Little Thing

****

_Dear Mary,_

_I was not impatient in my previous letter, I was merely curious, for God's sake! You've been in love with Dickon for years now, and it seems silly to put off the wedding for such little reason. His ribs will heal in time, as will the wounds in his mind. I think the exercises are quite good for him; even if he cannot go outside yet, lifting small objects and walking about the house will at the very least help. It cannot possibly harm him further, at any rate. However, if you do wait to have the wedding until this summer, that will give me time to tour the lakes with Freddie and the others, and as you say, it will give Dickon and you time to re-explore the garden. (More on the lakes in a bit...)_

_London during the winter ishorrid – the slush is far too slick and icy this year. I nearly fell yesterday simply walking down the pavement to the car, and I can't afford to miss any more time from school after last term. My professors were generous in allowing me to assist you with Dickon for that one week, but they are less gracious these days and my work is quite demanding. I've ever so many essays and projects; Professor Snelling insists we complete our labs by the end of the week, and most of us are quite put out with the man. He never takes anything else into consideration! We had a lark two evenings ago at his expense – he had given a test that afternoon and quite a few of us met at the club once classes were over, to relax. We spent the rest of the evening imitating him (Alexander was the best, he can mimic anyone's voice, and he had us all laughing to burst) and complaining about the work he gives us. Perhaps it is cruel, but then again the man doesn't do himself any favors and it feels good to complain with the others, sometimes. And with the amount of work he and the other Professors are giving us, I believe I shall have to stay in London over the Easter holidays to remain caught up before final exams. I'm sure you and Father will both be disappointed, but it can't be helped. I promise to return home for the remainder of the summer, after my tour of the lakes. The garden will likely be in full bloom then, and I cannot wait to see it._

_You mentioned finding a suitable home that you and Dickon can move into after your marriage, and I must tell you that I believe I have a solution to the problem. Before I returned to London after Christmas, I did some investigating myself in Father's library, examining the boundaries for Misselthwaite. This was something I had intended to do anyways, so it has worked out to everyone's benefit. The actual land itself hasn't been surveyed since 1900, which was the year Father and Mother married (I can only assume Father didn't feel up to it in the years that followed). I've decided to have it surveyed again this spring, with Father's permission of course. I believe there is a small hunting lodge nearby that has been in disuse since the 1860's; from the last records I was able to locate, there was an 1868 hunting excursion that my grandfather hosted for some of his acquaintances during the autumn of that year. Heaven knows what sort of condition it's in, and it will likely need to be renovated before anyone can use it. If you will bear with me though, I shall see if it would be feasible to update it, or if it is simply too far-gone for repair. (Father, I might add, believes the entire idea is a foolish venture and that I shouldn't even consider it, but it would be much better for you and Dickon then a mere cottage, and I do love Misselthwaite)._

_I believe a marriage in the garden would be the best thing (could you even imagine marrying anywhere else, Mary?), but I beg you not to bore me with excessive details of how "lovely" and "divine" it will be or what sort of ribbon and flowers you shall have. I don't think I can stomach such drivel at the moment, no matter that you're my cousin and my dearest friend! I hear enough of that sort of talk from those friends of mine who are entering matrimony, and until I find someone I love as much as I once loved you, I don't wish to be inundated by it all. You will forgive me, I hope?_

_As for the tour of the Lake District, I have given Freddie my answer and will accompany him, as well as Graham Maycott, Walter Cooke, and Perry Sanburne this May to visit the area. I have also heard many exciting things about the lakes; I cannot believe we haven't visited them before, either. You are quite right – Father was always taking us to other places as we grew up, but I feel that as an Englishman it is best to know your own country in depth and I have resolved to explore it to the fullest. I will, of course, take your advice and keep a journal, and you may read it upon my return to Misselthwaite._

_As for Grace, I am fully inclined to agree with you. There are times that I confess I think she will grow up to be a very attractive young lady – after all, you were quite sour when I first met you, Mary, and you've changed considerably – but the fact that Grace entered my rooms without my permission was quite frustrating and disconcerting. I threatened to mention it to Lord Willingham if she did it again, and she was so mortified that she swore she wouldn't. The trouble is, I think she was mortified because I caught her, and notbecause I was only half-dressed at the time, because it hasn't stopped her from batting her lashes at me after dinner in the sitting room or trying to wheedle me into turning the pages for her at the piano. She doesn't even play well! But I suppose that is beside the point. I'm considering asking Father if he will allow me to use his townhouse next term, even if I'm not twenty-one. That would be the sensible thing to do, to get away from the child and prevent any further embarrassments, or worse, a real disaster. (What if she walked in on my bath, or something of the sort? I'd never be able to explain that to the Willinghams!) But then again, perhaps she can't help it; I am rather good-looking, if I say so myself. (I can already hear the sarcasm pouring in through your next letter!) And to answer your question, Freddie does have a sister, but she's courting Walter, so I can't very well inquire, now can I? Besides, she's two years older than I am, and while some men don't mind that sort of thing, it would bother me too much, personally. And I don't want to be stealing other chaps' ladies if I can help it._

_I'm afraid I've got to study this evening; I've been putting it off all day but it can't be ignored any longer. My regards to Father and Dickon! Keep me informed of Dickon's progress._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Your cousin,_

_Colin_


	22. If You're Reading This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sowerbys receive news of Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Tim McGraw, released in 2007.
> 
> ~BD

****

## If You're Reading This

****

His mother looks like a woman who has no tears left to shed, but still wishes to cry.

She sits stoically, solemnly, somberly in the chair beside the window of his room in the manor, gazing across the lifeless moor, her hands folded in her lap and her fingers twisted around a piece of folded paper. Her face is more lined than he ever remembers seeing it, and he wonders with dread: When did she grow this old? When did she acquire the exhausted, worn lines? She had always looked so young...so full of life...so vibrant.

It should have been him. The paper she clutches should have had _his_ name upon it. Phil was only sixteen. He was too young to die. He was too young to go to war.

In the corner, Martha is crying quietly, her apron pressed against her face. He wonders if _he_ can still cry, and decides that, yes, he can. Perhaps that means he is still human, still alive. But despite this, he blinks the tears _back_ , because he doesn't _want_ to cry. He is sick of tears.

He wonders if Phil joined up because _he_ was in the army. If his brother thought that perhaps it was all glory and valiance, or if he looked up to Dickon because Dickon was older and he simply wanted to imitate his big brother's footsteps.

The very thought makes him sick to his stomach. Was _he_ the cause of his brother's death?

"We've no body t' bury, o' course," his mother says suddenly, in a quiet voice of unnatural calm that jolts him from the panic that was starting to worm through his chest. She takes a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself and continues, "But th' pastor says we mayn' 'ave a service, if we wish it."

He nods, but the movement feels mechanical. _He_ feels mechanical. He doesn't want to attend such a funeral – or any funeral ever again, for that matter. His worst fear for over a year was being buried in a mass grave in the fields of France, and that is exactly what has happened to Phil. His brother lies without marker, with hundreds of other men, all of whom may or may not be forgotten in twenty or fifty or a hundred years. Common men whose names aren't important because they aren't rich enough to afford a lingering memory to the masses.

The door opens slowly, and he glances towards it, desperate for a distraction. Mary enters, carrying a tea tray. Her willowy frame moves gracefully into the room, her dress perfect and lovely and the skirt shifting with her steps, while the lace at her throat shows off the lines of her pale face. She keeps her chin lifted and he admires her for being so strong, for not crying right now. She knew Phil too, and she knew how much he prayed his brother would arrive home safely. He knows that later, in private, she will cry because she loves _him_ , and he loves her for understanding him so well.

Martha realizes her mistress has entered the room a second too late, and she jumps as though burned and scampers forward. "Eh!" she cries, her face still damp with tears as she scrubs at them with the rough apron. "Tha shouldn' 'ave carried it all th' way up from th' kitchens! Tis too heavy for thee!"

She tries to take the tea tray, but Mary won't allow it.

"It isn't heavy, Martha. Really," she insists softly. She places the tray upon one of the dressers and turns to leave, as though wishing to stay separate from the Sowerby family in their time of grief. A silly notion, really. She'll be part of them soon enough. He looks back towards the moor, wishing he could be alone with Mary. A selfish wish, perhaps. But Mary seems to be the only person he can cry in front of, these days. Does that make him weak? Or strong? He isn't sure. He feels confused and alone.

His mother rises automatically from her chair and stops Mary from leaving, smiling as she traces her fingertips over one of Mary's slender cheeks in a loving gesture.

"So beautiful," Mrs. Sowerby whispers. She seems outside of herself, outside of her grief. "Like tha mother. I knew tha would be, child."

Mary's eyes drop to the floor. "Please donna remind me. Tha knows I don' like t' think about my mother. I wish I were beautiful like Colin's mother, instead. Or like thee."

"Regardless o' how tha feels, tha is beautiful, jus' th' same. Thank thee for th' tea, Mary. T'was thoughtful an' kind o' thee to bring it."

Mary nods, and quickly exits, her face still pale.

A few seconds tick by before the older woman sighs heavily and turns to Dickon. Her smile bittersweet, and she runs her fingers through his curls. "I knew she'd marry thee, one day," she murmurs distantly. "Tis th' only ray o' sun I 'ave right now, I fear. Eh, such a sweet lady, she is. No longer a girl, I fear."

He has no idea what to say to this, so he only nods again. But that feels awkward, too.


	23. Club Michelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Colin's social life in London, amongst his peers and classmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Eddie Money, released in 1983.
> 
> I wanted to explore different types of girls for Colin, as well as his life away from Yorkshire. What sort of person he would be in town, amongst his peers and classmates, versus at home with his two best friends. The original idea was to try and see what type of girl fit Colin best, if he didn't marry Mary, and his thoughts on different girls.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Club Michelle

****

"Bad news, chaps. Michelle Rochester just got engaged to Howie Bouchard. Heard it from Blake; he got it from Nancy Whitefield."

" _What_?"

"You can't be serious!"

"Oh, _balls_."

The young men gathered about the cozy room stare in horror at Frank Quincy, who has walked in for the sole purpose of announcing this wretched news. Even Colin glances up, though he hates to admit he feels a twitch of disappoint at the fact that Michelle is, in fact, engaged now.

Alexander sighs as mutinous grumbling erupts, and he rises and tosses the book he was studying onto a side table. "Come on lads. We always knew it wouldn't be one of us. Not nearly enough money!"

"Howie's a tosser, though."

"And a huge pain in the arse!"

Colin discreetly returns to the book Dickon gave him for Christmas, determined not to let the rest of his mates guess at how much he was secretly in love with Michelle Rochester, himself. She's only one of the most beautiful women in their social circle, but he's still always known he never really had a chance with her – she's four years older than he is, and she tends to flirt with anyone male that moves. Of course, most anyone male that moves tends to flirt back; the Rochester family is wealthy, with titles to boot. All the men in this room knew that whoever married old Rochester's only child would have it made for generations. Too bad it turned out to be the biggest prig in London. No one likes Howie; no one ever did.

Frank has taken it upon himself to pour shots for everyone gathered about – all of them King's College students from wealthy families who come to this particular, upper class club to study or play cards or just carry on conversation. The shots are passed around and Colin takes his without comment.

Frank lifts his grandly. "To Michelle," he says in a stoic voice.

Colin ignores the burn against his throat and returns to his book as soon as he places the glass on the small table beside the leather chair he's sprawled in.

Someone snaps, "We aren't drinking to Howie, are we?"

"God, no."

"We can bet their first kid doesn't look at thing like him, though."

A few boys snigger.

"I'm in."

"Me, too."

The sound of a bottle clinking open echoes through the room and someone else says dolefully, "There aren't many good girls left though. Seems like."

_True_ , Colin thinks sourly. The words upon the page blur together slightly and he must refocus, setting his mind to translating French rather than listening to the others go on about Michelle and girls in general and marriage.

"Should have gone to war, I suppose. Instead of going to university. Heard there were heaps of pretty French girls looking for British soldiers," someone else remarks.

There is light laughter at this, and Colin feels irritation bubbling in his chest. He wonders if his friends have actually sat down and talked with anyone they know who spent time on the lines. He has – and not just with Dickon. And not even the wealthy young men he is acquainted with, who joined the army as officers, had much good to say about their experiences fighting against the Germans.

The door to the large room opens and a butler enters, dutifully nodding to the young men as they fall silent and turn to face him.

"Telegram," he announces in a dull voice. "For Mr. Colin Craven."

Heads swivel as Colin rises arrogantly and crosses the room to take the missive. Then the door closes once again, and most of the boys resume their discussion on which girls they wouldn't be opposed to courting, now that Michelle is wearing a rock on her left hand.

Colin returns to his chair and opens the telegram. As he scans it, he feels his fingers go numb, and for a brief second he closes his eyes, mastering his emotions. Because he's British, damn it, and there are always causalities when it comes to war. He lost one of his good friends a year ago, even – the son of a wealthy lord who went to France as a Lieutenant and had made it all the way to Major before being killed by enemy fire. And he had prepared himself for the possibility that Phil hadn't survived. But still...

"What's wrong, Craven?"

He jerks back from his thoughts and turns to give the others, who are all watching him closely now, an almost indifferent answer.

"Just a bit of bad news is all."

"Not more bad news!"

"God, who else is engaged?"

Colin rolls his eyes; he simply can't help it. Sometimes, his classmates seem completely oblivious to the fact that there are other things going on in the world besides their own lives. "No one else got engaged," he states dryly. "Just someone I knew was killed in France, that's all. His family found out yesterday. Telegram's from them." He returns to his seat and picks up his book once more, determined to ignore them.

"Bit late, isn't it? War ended in November. It's almost March."

"Well, that's the British War Office, for you."

"Politics," a third person mutters. "Pour us another then, Frank."

"What are we drinking to this time? The corrupt system?"

"Good as reason as any. Feel sorry for that family; had to wait four months for news? God."

"Any daughters in that family?" someone calls out to Colin. "What's their status, Colin?"

He smiles wryly at the thought of one of these young men marrying any of the down-to-earth, hard-working, friendly, kind, perfectly-lovely-in-a-country-sort-of-way Sowerby girls. "None you'd be interested in, Lonnie."

"Come on! Why not?"

"Take my word for it."

"Ugly," someone says knowingly.

"Why is it, all the pretty girls are taken?"

"It's only the tarts left, and who wants one of them for keeps? Unless their father's rich, of course."

Colin does not correct the misinterpretation; his friends don't need to know the truth. The Sowerbys may be good people, but they are poor, and no one in this room would dare to consider marrying one of them.

"Hi up, Colin, whatever happened to your cousin? I thought she was returning to London after the holidays."

"She elected to remain in Yorkshire; some things came up and she's assisting with a few changes about Misselthwaite."

"Now, there's a girl worth marrying," someone else says. The grin is evident in his voice.

"Too independent for me. No offense, Craven. But your cousin's got a mean streak in her. Beat the hell out of me in chess, once. On purpose!"

"Come off it. And even if she did, you probably deserved it, Talbot."

"No, no. He's right. Mary Lennox is a demon at chess. I've played her, myself."

"Frank, pour another round, why don't you?"

And Colin smiles sadly to himself as the others continue their bickering. No sense telling them the truth just yet, he thinks. It can wait a while longer, if it ever comes out at all. Because eventually, it won't even matter.


	24. It's Only Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon argue about a number of different things, including the weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Beatles, released in 1965.
> 
> ~BD

****

## It's Only Love

****

"Here. You've got to put these on, too."

"Eh, Mary. I'm fine, really –"

"And this." She thrusts a cap into his hands.

"But we're jus' goin' outside!"

"And I really don't know that it's such a good idea, either! It's still far too chilly out and –!"

"Mary, I'll be _fine_." His temper smolders beneath the surface, threatening to break free; she's been mollycoddling him the past fifteen minutes, damn it, and he's a grown man, after all.

"And don't you dare take that scarf off," she adds sharply, frowning at him. "Or I'll –"

He cuts her off. "Or tha'll _what_?"

Her face flushes pink. "Just don't take it off!" she demands. "It's still too cold for you to venture outside without it!"

"Mary, listen t' me. 'Tis _March_ , not _January_. An' I've _got_ t' get outside before I go out o' me mind stayin' in this bloody room! I'll be fine! It's jus' Yorkshire!"

She changes tactics. "Perhaps we should wait another week. It might be warmer, then."

He rolls his eyes. "I'll be damned if Medlock isn' right about thee. Tha does act like an old woman."

For a second, she sputters incoherently; then she blurts out, "Dickon Sowerby! How dare you speak to your fiancé in such a way!"

"Aye, and how _should_ I speak t' thee, then?"

Infuriated and indignant, she actually stamps her foot. "I... just... Not like _that_! I am _not_ an old woman!"

"Maybe not. But I hold t' what I told thee th' first time we met." He pulls at the knot in the scarf, which is tight against his throat, loosening it several inches just to irritate her further. "Tha's th' queerest lass I ever knew."

Her eyes glitter angrily and she steps back from him to gain some distance. "And you're the queerest lad I ever knew!" she snarls, as if hoping the words might wound him a bit.

"Fine couple we'll make then, eh? Well suited, I'd say."

"Maybe I _shouldn'_ marry thee!" She turns in a haughty swirl to grab her coat, clearly angry with him.

Unable to help himself, he grabs her 'round the waist, despite how clumsy it is to do so while wearing thick mittens, and twists her about to face him, keeping his arms tight around her so that she can't get away.

She squeaks at the sudden change and shoves at him. "You let me go _right this minute_ , Dickon, or I'll –!"

"Or tha'll what? Tha keeps makin' threats, an' yet, tha doesn' act on 'em. Not verra convincin', really." He pulls her a bit closer, trapping her arms against her body so she can't struggle as much.

She pushes at his chest again, desperate to worm her way out of his grip, but before she can retort, he leans in and kisses her firmly.

For a moment, she continues to fight him, and it's absolutely thrilling. She doesn't want to kiss him in the middle of an argument and it's not a perfect kiss in many ways, because they are still fighting. But in a way it's perfect _because_ of this, and it sends lightening through his veins. Mary is like a smoldering fire, always ready to flare into flame. Kissing her is the best way to ignite it.

Eventually (and as he expects), she gradually gives in and slides closer, opening her mouth to his – which is just as thrilling, actually.

And they are suddenly going from kiss to kiss – some light and teasing, others deep and hungry. His exposed skin grows hotter. Mary's fingers are covered in smooth, camel-colored leather gloves that feel odd against the back of his head, tangled tightly in his hair, and he can't quite feel the contour of her body through the thick dress and corset she wears, but it doesn't really matter. Because it's almost more alluring like this. Almost as though he wants to take each article of clothing off one by one, so that by the time he has her nearly undressed, he's out of control and desperate for her. But he knows he can't. Not yet. Soon, though. Just a few more bloody months, if he can wait that long. Sometimes it seems he won't be able to make it, though. Like right now.

A few seconds later, just as he's started to back her against the wall to pin her there with his body, she breaks away from his mouth and frowns severely at him.

"Or I won' kiss thee th' rest o' th' week," she says breathlessly, finally coming up with a decent threat.

"I'd like t' see thee follow through with _that_ one," he replies dryly. The girl can't seem to keep her pretty little hands off of him, and he really doesn't want it any other way, even _if_ it means they have to wait until they marry to go further than they have. "What tha _can_ do, though," he continues, trying to push away thoughts of taking her clothes off, "is t' kiss me when I get cold outside. That should warm me up nicely, an' then I won't catch cold as tha seems t' think I will."

Her cheeks flush pink and she sputters, then she makes an angry noise and swirls to grab her coat.

"You're absolutely impossible!" she declares.

But there's no missing the way her lips curve upwards as she turns towards the door, and he can't help but grin as he follows her through the corridors and down the narrow stairs to a servants' door that leads outside. He pauses when Mary opens it, able to hear blood pumping loudly in his ears, and then he steps over the threshold. For the first time in months, he is finally out of the oppressing, dark, silent manor and in the fresh, clean, crisp air of North Yorkshire, and his lungs feel as though they may burst as he takes breaths so deep he can feel the coldness seeping all the way down to his toes, despite Mary's precautions of dressing him as warmly as possible. And he forgets all about their brief tryst upstairs, because _this_ is all that matters right now: breathing and knowing he's alive, and healing.

After a few moments, he opens his eyes and finds her watching him closely, and he smiles at her. "Race thee t' th' garden?" he teases. He suddenly feels as if he can do anything. Oh, how he's missed being here, outside, on the moor he grew up in, among the flora and fauna he knows as well as himself.

She arches a pretty eyebrow. "Tha's not racing anywhere," she reminds him, jolting him back to reality. "Not unless tha wants to fracture tha ribs again."

He catches his breath, remembering the intense pain from that particular injury. After a second, he admits grudgingly, "I canna say I want t' do _that_."

"Then we'll _walk_ to the garden, an' tha can race when Colin comes home for th' summer. Tha should be strong enow then, an' I imagine Colin would like t' race thee. Th' two o' thee should be evenly matched, I'd say."

He takes a deep breath. The cold air doesn't burn as much this time as it did at first, but becomes a part of him instead. "Aye, I think tha's right."

"I'm always right."

"I donna know about _that_..."

"Are you _trying_ to start another fight?"

He grins and falls into step beside her, his arm snaking about her waist, pulling her to him. "Tis good t' argue every now and then. Means makin' up with thee will be nicer. Besides, tha's contrary – one o' th' reasons I love thee."

"Hmm. I'll keep t' my promise earlier," she reminds him coolly. "And don't forget it."

"I'd still like t' see thee try."

"Verra well, if tha insists."

He quickly tries to tighten his hold on her, determined to kiss her again, but she slithers out of his fingers and bursts into laughter, dancing just out of his range.

"Nowt o' th' soart, Mr. Sowerby. I'm not tha wife _yet_ ," she teases.

"Once I get thee in th' garden, there won' be room for tha t' run so."

Loftily, she says, "Then maybe I won't go to the garden."

"An' where will tha go, then?"

"Out onto the moor, I think. There's plenty of room to dodge you _there_."

He comes up closer to her, but she doesn't make any attempt to dart away from him, this time. "Not sure why tha wants t' dodge me so," he muses, tucking a curl behind her ear. "I thought tha liked it when I kissed thee."

For a brief second, their teasing and playing flutter away, and he can see the undisguised need in Mary's eyes as she meets his gaze.

"Aye," she whispers, placing a small, gloved hand on the new coat that Colin gave him for Christmas. "I do like it when tha kisses me. Verra much."

For a moment, he forgets to breathe the Yorkshire air he loves so much; sometimes it does seem hard to breathe when Mary looks at him in such a way as this. But after a few seconds, he realizes that her hands are playing with his scarf, that she's taking advantage of his distraction, and suddenly he feels the knot bump against his throat. He winces slightly, and she giggles softly.

"And don't loosen it again," she reminds him. "I won't have you getting sick after I finally got you well."

Resigned, he smiles at her. "Aye. As tha wishes."


	25. Glass Onion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Archibald Craven and his brother, Dr. Craven, have a discussion about Dickon, influenza, and education.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Beatles, released in 1968.
> 
> I needed to come up with a given name for Archibald's brother (Dr. Craven) in this chapter, because it's pretty obvious that brothers aren't going to call each other by official titles. I came up with something based off of lists of British names from the 1800's, and one that I thought went well enough with "Archibald". I've also had to create names for some of Dickon's siblings for future chapters, and I'm basing their names off of lists of British names from the early 1900's. Hopefully these "created names" won't throw the fanfic off too much. Additional thanks to Slytherinsal on FFN, for her extensive knowledge of all things British, from history to slang. She keeps me line when it comes to those things.
> 
> Also, I never really thought of Dr. Craven as being the enemy Colin made him out to be in the novel. I suspect the man has worked his whole life and is tired, but not unfeeling.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Glass Onion

****

Doctor Craven gazes somberly at the fire flickering in his brother's hearth, his brow slightly contracted in thought.

"I thought," Lord Craven says, though bit testily as he paces slowly up the study, "that the boy was doing better."

"Oh, he is. That isn't the problem."

"Then what _is_ the problem?"

There is a slight, tense pause before the doctor says quietly, "He can't be sent home yet, Arch."

Lord Craven's eyebrows lift. "Whyever not? I'm sure he is anxious to see his family again, Edwin."

"And I am sure _you_ are anxious to separate him and Mary before they wed. Hoping they may change their minds, are you?"

Archibald's eyes narrow, and Doctor Craven sighs heavily. "The two of them are doing nothing out of the ordinary, Archibald. They're simply two young people in love. A lot like you and Lilias were, really. And furthermore, separating them won't do anything to deter their feelings. After all, Mary spent two years in London, and Dickon over a year in France, and even _that_ didn't change things between them. I know he's a poor lad, but he's a good man, and always has been. He'll care for her in a way many men can't. So you'd best simply acknowledge the fact that they've made up their minds – or rather, Mary has, since the decision is ultimately hers – and move forward. Besides, my reasons for wanting him to remain here have nothing to do with their engagement."

"Then why should he stay here, if he is healed?" Lord Craven finally sits opposite his brother and stops his relentless moving about. "You are right about one thing: I do believe that it will do them good to be apart before their marriage. I won't have to worry about their behavior with each other, at any rate."

"Now really. I doubt they've done anything improper."

"Get to your _point_ , Edwin."

Doctor Craven sighs, rises from his seat, and rests a hand on the mantle as he gazes into the fire. "Two of his siblings have fevers, Arch. High fevers."

There is a moment of silence in which the fire crackles slightly. A log breaks and crumbles to ash, sending a spiral of smoke into the chimney.

"Influenza?" Archibald asks – almost too calmly.

"I cannot be certain yet. There are several other similar cases in Thwaite, and three others in the country nearby. If it is indeed influenza, there is little I can do to stop it. Except quarantine it and keep those who are healthy away from it. I fear that Dickon is too susceptible due to his previous injuries from the war; they may have healed, but his body is still weaker than it needs to be, and I'm afraid that, even if he caught a common cold, he would fare worse than the average person right now."

"Should I recall Colin home?"

"Colin has been in London the past year without contracting it, which is saying something. I would leave him where he is for now."

There is a pause, the Archibald asks quietly, "Do you think Dickon brought it home from France?"

Doctor Craven glances at his brother's face, noting how pale it has become. Wearily, he murmurs, "A highly possible scenario. He could have passed it to Martha or Susan, and on to the rest of his family. But I cannot prove that. They could have caught it elsewhere, and easily."

"But then Mary could also be in danger."

"And yourself."

"I don't care about myself."

Doctor Craven takes a deep breath. "I don't think Mary has caught it yet; she has shown absolutely no symptoms in all the time I've been coming to inquire of Dickon's war injuries. Which is strange; it seems to attack young, healthy people. Perhaps her inmune system is stronger than most, after her life in India as a child. I don't know. And it may even be that Dickon had a light case of it before he came here, which has made him immune somehow. He was always healthy as a child. Colin mentioned to me that Dickon thought he had a cold before Colin located him in the hospital in London. If my guess is accurate, he didn't realize what he had, and neither did the doctors who were treating him. They're so overworked it's impossible to catch everything."

There is another long moment of silence. Archibald stares at the fire; his brother watches him closely, and at length, he breaks the oppressing atmosphere. "You cannot blame Dickon, Arch."

"I don't."

"Nor can either of us tell him what we suspect. He would be devastated if he knew he was the cause of more bad luck to his family. Poor Susan is beside herself about Phillip. I've told her the illness in the others could possibly be influenza, because she needs to know what she's up against. But nothing more than that. I don't want to give her false hope, because the mortality rate is high."

Archibald nods. "I understand."

"Perhaps I could make a suggestion? From my understanding, Dickon improved some of his writing skills while at war. Why not have Mary tutor him while we wait the fevers out? That will give them both something to do in the meantime, something to keep them occupied besides each other."

"And what do you propose he should learn?"

Doctor Craven makes a scathing noise. "Roach isn't going to live forever, you know. Man has a bad heart, Arch. I've been telling him that for years. He needs to retire, and you would then be in need of a head gardener."

"Dickon would be a natural for that sort of thing, and my first choice if something happened to Roach. But I don't see how it has anything to do with schooling."

"You've plenty of books on botany in the library. Colin and Mary have been collecting them for years. Allow Dickon the chance to improve his education. You've the means to do it, and Mary would be a good tutor. She has nothing better to do around here, and as I recall, her marks were quite high in London. By allowing her to teach him, that will give him an edge to finding a better job, should anything happen to Misselthwaite. And in turn ensure that Mary is well cared for. Not, of course, that anything would happen to Misselthwaite. But... just in case."

Lord Craven leans back in his chair and says sardonically, "You've planned this out, I see."

Doctor Craven smiles slightly. "Just a suggestion, Arch. Just a suggestion."

"Very well. Keep me informed," Archibald says pointedly, "of the progress of the cases around the area. And I shall speak to Mary and Dickon about...your _suggestion_."


	26. Part of Your World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Craven speaks to Mary and Dickon about his conversation with Dr. Craven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from Disney's The Little Mermaid, actually. But it kind of fits for this.
> 
> I did not want to go into detail about the influenza outbreak in 1918/1919 in this story, so basically, what you see here is what you get of it, with a bit of a follow up in a later chapter.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Part of Your World

****

Dickon wonders if he has ever been so nervous. Archibald Craven can be an imposing man, for all he is slightly hunched and elderly. The way he stands behind his desk reminds Dickon forcibly of a vulture, and he cannot help but feel some impending doom is lurking above.

However, beside him, Mary is smiling at her uncle in that disarming way which women alone seem to possess, and she innocently inquires, "You wished to speak to us, Uncle?"

Too innocently. God help him when he marries this girl.

Archibald Craven flicks his eyes once at Dickon after Mary's question, and it is as though a stone has dropped into his stomach. He feels awkward and out of place, and he wonders, in dismay, if the man is deliberately trying to make him feel this way. He knows very well he is a commoner, and he has always known it, but these days he hates to be reminded of it.

"Please sit down."

The man's voice is quiet but commanding, and together, Dickon and Mary slowly sit in the chairs opposite the mahogany desk.

"There have been some...complications," Lord Craven begins. "Edwin has informed me that your injuries from the war have completely healed, Dickon. But he believes your body is still weak."

"We are working on that," Mary interrupts, her back perfectly straight. Like a lady. "By doing strenghtening exercises -"

Archibald's eyes dart once to his niece, silently telling her to be quiet, and she falters under his gaze and closes her mouth.

"Yes, I am aware of that. Still," he goes on, a bit pointedly, his gaze still on Mary, "We cannot send you home just yet."

Dickon has no idea what to make of this, and is afraid to speak without permission. Fortunately, Mary has courage enough to speak on his behalf, despite being silenced once already.

"Send him home?" she stammers.

"Yes. Edwin has informed me that several of Dickon's siblings are currently running high fevers and showing other symptoms of... influenza."

And it feels as though his heart stops beating for a moment. As though his world stands still. As though this can't possibly be happening. His mother has already lost too much as it is, just from Phil's death. _They've_ lost too much. This can't be real.

Beside him, he vaguely notices that Mary's face seems to have grown paler, and she whispers, "No..."

"There are also several other local cases as well. And there is nothing that can be done about them, but we _can_ keep you both here for the time being."

Dickon finally finds his voice, and whispers, "I am sorry, sir. I know I've been an inconvenience –"

"You've been nothing of the sort," Lord Craven says calmly. "And my brother is hoping these concerns will pass quickly, and that the cases are _not_ influenza. In the meantime, you will remain here, at Misselthwaite, with Mary."

"What of Colin?" Mary asks, worried.

"He seems safe enough at the moment. The sickness appears to be non-discriminatory in where it attacks. The country is no safer than the city. I have written him this morning to inform him of what is taking place here. Otherwise, we should never hear the end of it if we didn't tell him."

"That," Mary says dryly, "is true enough."

Her uncle ignores this. "Since the two of you will be together for a while longer before your marriage, I feel I should make a suggestion regarding the use of your time. I will soon be in need of a new head gardener; I spoke with Mr. Roach this morning and he intends to retire within a year or two. Dickon, you would be my first choice for this position, given your abilities. Still, there may be things even you do not know yet. I should like to give you the opportunity to expand your horizons a bit. The library contains many books on a variety of subjects, thanks to Colin's obsession with books. Mary graduated at the top of her class in London, and would be a suitable tutor to assist you in furthering your own education. It would be a good use of time, and the two of you will have plenty of time while we wait to determine if the cases in the area are indeed influenza."

Dickon has no idea what to say to this, and for a few seconds he is silent before he is able to form the words to murmur his thanks. He glances nervously at Mary, who seems suddenly pensive.

"Mary?" Her uncle prompts.

"I think it is a good idea, if Dickon agrees."

Dickon nods. "Aye, I would be willin' t' learn."

"Excellent."

"Will you be assisting us?" Mary asks her uncle, almost suspiciously.

"Not unless you require my assistance. I have other pressing matters. After all, Colin," Lord Craven says sarcastically, holding up a recent letter from a stack of papers on his desk, "is determined to have Misselthwaite surveyed within the next two months."

"He mentioned a hunting lodge," Mary begins thoughtfully.

"Yes, I know all about _that_ idea. But he has never been there himself, to my knowledge, and if memory serves me correctly, it is a ruin. The renovation would be too great a cost, Mary. But don't worry. I am looking into other options. While you help Dickon with his studies, I shall be inquiring into these."

Dickon feels a knot building in his stomach where the stone seemed to drop earlier; had Mary remained in London and married a gentleman, her uncle would not be considering _housing_ options for her – because the man she loves is too poor to offer her more than a cottage on the moor. If even that. Because he doesn't have much money to his name right now. Only a bit left over from his stint in the army.

Lord Craven smiles, as though seeing Dickon's discomfort. Whether he desires to put his future nephew-in-law at rest or not, however, remains unknown. "Not to worry," he says lightly. "I feel certain I can find something suitable. That is all I wished to speak to the two of you about. I will let you know when it is safe for you to return home, Dickon."

Dickon nods, and rises with Mary, for there is nothing more to be discussed, apparently. A jumble of thoughts crowd his mind, and he worries for his family while wondering what Mary will teach him in the forthcoming days in the library. And he resolutely pushes aside the thought of being closeted in a large, dark room with her for hours at a time, knowing that they will have to focus on book learning in case her uncle quizzes him.

Which seems a likely possibility, given the man's unpredictable nature.


	27. Find Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon starts his studies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from Disney's Cars (the first movie).
> 
> ~BD

****

## Find Yourself

****

The library is one of those rooms that always feel dark and closed in, despite its great size. Perhaps it has something to do with the shelving that reaches to the ceiling on both levels, or maybe because the heavy draperies are always closed and the lamps are always lit instead. They cast only dim, flickering shadows across the floor, which would seem eerie if he were in the place alone. But Mary is always with him, and he cannot help but be surprised at the change she exhibits once they enter this hushed room.

She becomes a professor of sorts, in a way that would make her cousin proud. She is an excellent teacher, and while he studies mathematics and history and language and botany, she guides him through each subject with patience, gentleness, and understanding, because she knows that this is difficult for him. He had very little schooling as a child and young teenager, because it was more important in his world to find a local job, rather than spending time at school. Yet Mary never makes him feel as though he is ignorant or stupid for this, or as though he can't learn these things because he is older now. She encourages him. She never loses her temper, never gets frustrated.

He asks her why she never went on to university like Colin, but she merely rolls her eyes and complains that education is simply too political and too rigidly structured for her liking. He doesn't ask any additional questions after this, unless they pertain directly to his own studies, but he cannot help but wonder at her. She could have done anything at all in the world, and yet she is here with him, in a tiny area of the country, content to spend her life upon the moor.

He quickly discovers that he dislikes mathematics. He has no use for counting except in his own way, and measurements in textbooks are much different from local jargon and understanding. He knows, for instance, how large each of the vegetable gardens at Misselthwaite are, and how long each row in each garden is, and exactly how many cabbages or potatoes or onions can be planted in one row. He doesn't care that there is a scientific way to go about calculating these things, because country-folk have their own way of doing it, and have for centuries. But, on the other hand, he loves history and botany and language, and soaks each one up as though he were a sponge. He thinks that perhaps he enjoys French simply because he heard it so much during the war; it is a pretty language that flows and twists off the tongue in soft ripples, unlike German, which is so harsh and grating to the ears, or English, which has so many different dialects. He cannot speak French nearly as well as Mary can, but he finds that Mary does, in fact, know a good deal of French despite her dislike of having been forced to learn additional languages in London, and she is able to guide him through the basics.

Sometimes, he forgets to study at all, and instead watches hungrily as Mary sometimes studies on her own, oblivious to his gaze and his wishful hoping that he could be as learned as she is.

He doesn't realize he is becoming so, in his own way. Slowly but surely.

The days slip by and turn to weeks; when he isn't studying, he and Mary wander into the garden and Mary sets him to work helping her weed about the many green shoots already unfurling their flowers in a variety of whites, golds, yellows, and purples. Doctor Craven stops by weekly to visit and inquire of their health. The mysterious influenza claims several victims in the village and surrounding areas, as it has been doing for the past year, but it seems to be disappearing at long last. Most of the Sowerby family pulls through, a little worse for the wear in some cases, but alive. Only one of his siblings was unable to survive the illness, and despite his vow that he would never attend another funeral, he goes to this one just the same. He is forced to stand outside the churchyard, a good distance from his family, in case anyone else has the strain of the deadly fever. But they know he is there and a couple of his brothers and sisters wave joyfully at him. He watches in agony - a silent sentry, as it were - as his father holds his mother, as they say goodbye to a second child in a year, because even though life on the moor is hard and sickness often takes those you love away, it is always difficult to let go. And that night, he cries silently for his mother, whom he is certain must be the strongest person on earth.

After a week however, the funeral seems as though it were years in the past; a black-and-white blur of an event. Instead, he finds himself watching wispy clouds drift lazily across a blue-gray sky that hints of spring rain, and he cannot sort his thoughts out at all, which bothers him greatly.

In the meantime, Colin writes regularly and Mary finds a book regarding the complex details of rose gardening for his next study project. Lord Craven checks on their progress when he remembers to do so, and quizzes Dickon on history and a little in French. Mrs. Medlock takes it to mind to suggest that Mary should spend some time in the kitchens, learning to cook as she is so determined to marry a man of the moor instead of a wealthy landowner from London, and God knows it won't do for her to starve her husband to death when they marry. Mr. Roach takes him out in the grounds while Mary tackles this task, and they go over each of the gardens so that he can learn how Lord Craven prefers Misselthwaite to be kept. Jemmy always walks with them, his gait slightly gangly and off-balance with his one arm missing, and Dickon occasionally receives a flash of memory from the war when he sees his fellow comrade plugging resolutely along at his tasks, learning to go about each day with his altered body. And he soberly reminds himself how damned lucky he was to come home only with broken ribs and a fractured arm and some shrapnel wounds.

The secret garden goes through its final spring phase and morphs into a splendid array of color. More often then not, he finds himself sprawled beneath the oak tree reading another book on vegetable gardening or bulbous plants, though he already knows most of it simply from living on the moor his entire life. Mary joins him in the garden in order to plant wildflower seeds in the cracks between the stones of the walls, and the robin usually manages to distract them both by darting about, building his nest in the alcove with his mate. Sometimes Dickon catches Mary glancing at _him_ instead of the robin, with a soft expression that reduces him to a state of semi-idiocy as he stares back at her, wondering how soon it will be before they are nest-building themselves.

Lord Craven and Colin have a heated telephone argument about the hunting lodge a few days after Misselthwaite is surveyed; the call apparently ends in Colin _not_ getting his way for once in his life, and Lord Craven spends the next week riding about the countryside himself, inspecting large cottages and other options for his niece's future home. When he finally locates a small country house he believes is quite promising, only a mile from Misselthwaite, Mary and Dickon ride with him to see it. It needs some work, but Dickon finds himself planning what to do even before he's realized _what_ he's doing, and Mary seems to doing just the same, for she goes through the rooms on both ground and first levels with her finger pressed to her lips as she debates those things women consider when looking at a home. Lord Craven gives him a knowing sort of smile that he isn't certain how to read.

He finds out much later that the comfortable house destined to become theirs was actually a small country retreat built by another wealthy lord, and sold to Lord Craven for a fraction of the cost because the man was selling off a number of properties in light of a recent bankruptcy due to bad war investments. Dickon finds himself immensely grateful that Colin is managing their finances and Mary's fortune, but wishes he had a fortune of his own, so that he needn't rely on luck and her relations for their future.

As May turns to June, the local pastor agrees on a small, simple ceremony in the garden per Mary's wishes, and Mary must leave him for a day to travel to York to be fitted for a wedding dress. A week later, Lord Craven accompanies Dickon (much to his surprise), to Leeds, so he can be measured for a suit. He feels incredibly self-conscious standing in a gentleman's shop with clerks hurrying about to please, despite the fact that his clothes are clean and not covered in patches as they were when he was a young boy. He wonders how on earth he can repay the Craven family for their kindness, and knows he cannot, and in a way this breaks his heart. Lord Craven watches him with a curious expression, but says nothing, and they spend the return train ride discussing the finer points of the War of the Roses, of all things.

Before he knows it, summer has arrived, and his wedding is only a couple of weeks away from taking place. Colin is due home again any day, and the garden has become a lazy, green paradise that Dickon and Mary often find themselves retreating into – whether it be to study, or to work, or to simply to lay in the grass and watch the clouds, or to try and desperately not become so wrapped up in each other that they forget they aren't married just yet.


	28. The Devil's Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon attend a local bonfire dance and do a bit of snogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is an American bluegrass folk song.
> 
> ~BD

****

## The Devil's Dream

****

If Lord Craven had not traveled to London on sudden business, Dickon knows they would likely have not been able to come here tonight. And if Lord Craven ever finds out they were here at all, and just a week before their wedding... Well, there's no telling what he would say or do, in all truth. But it was Mary's idea, and Dickon can't seem to say no to Mary, no matter what sort of trouble it could get him into.

As they step through what would be considered the "entrance" of the event, towards the great bonfire, there is a split second when the crowd of locals fall silent. And for a moment, things become a bit _too_ quiet as everyone stares at them, as the music falters, as a few of the older ladies glance at each other with knowing expressions that clearly indicate the gossip will be flying before too long. Because Lord Craven's well-bred, wealthy niece decided to attend a local country dance with a man who has no title and no money and nothing to his name except his word. Is it a scandelous love affair or just friendship turned to innocent love? Oh, everyone's always wondered, ever since they were children and he spent his days with her in that garden. But if the story is to be believed, the girl actually _accepted_ his proposal of marriage! Willingly! So perhaps she's not pregnant after all, which greatly diminishes the gossip. But if that's the case, she'll find life in a moor cottage is much different from life in a mansion, with servants to wait upon her hand and foot - she will indeed. Idealistic girl.

He stiffens slightly, because he knows that this must be what they'll be saying before long, and he hates it. He hates it because Mary is far from idealistic, and because she knows what she accepted when she agreed to become his wife. He hadn't wished to come to the bonfire at all, because he knew everyone would whisper. But she'd overheard Martha going on about it, and it had interested her so much and she had wanted to come so badly, and he couldn't say no. He glances at her now, half-wondering if she'll decide to turn back at this less than warm welcome.

But his his surprise, Mary is smiling - rather shyly and nervously, perhaps, but still smiling. She looks all about the circle of people several times before her eyes finally light upon his mother. Then her smile becomes relieved and she makes her way to the lady without second thought, past men and women who are farmers and herders and blacksmiths and factory workers, as though she is no different than they are, as though she could care less for the rumors that will be flying before dawn. He follows, amazed, even though he has known her since she was a child. Even though he knows her ways as well as he knows himself.

Mrs. Sowerby greets her with a hug and a kiss to her cheek, then hugs her son and steps aside so they may join her on the rough logs that line the outskirts of the hard earth cleared for dancing and gaiety. The small group of local musicians strike up another tune and the silence breaks at last; a few couples join each other in the space between the logs and the bonfire, while others remain seated and begin to talk of crops and farm animals, or else whisper behind their hands about the young lady and the young moor lad who, didn't everyone know, was recently returned from the war?

It strikes him that he actually feels more self-conscious _here_ then he does within the walls of Misselthwaite, which doesn't make any sense to him. He grew up among these people. They are neighbors and friends. Perhaps it has been his long stay at the manor that has changed his feelings. Perhaps it has been Colin and Mary's way of treating him like a human being instead of a servant or someone less than they are. Perhaps it is the other locals' way of seeing that in him - seeing that he has grown beyond Thwaite in some ways, grown in philosophy. Perhaps they resent him for that. He shifts uncomfortably upon the log as Mary chatters happily with his mother, unaware of his nerves.

However, when a young man, only a year younger than he, boldly steps up and asks Mary if she would like to dance with him, the self-conscious feeling disappears and jealously strikes viciously. Before Mary can politely give an answer, he coldly informs the boy that no, Miss Lenox _can't_ dance with him.

The boy rolls his eyes and glares for a brief moment before he moves on, and Mary gives him a fleeting glance through the corner of her lashes – a flash of defiance, a dare. If he were going to speak for her, to claim her as his, he'd best back up his words.

He rises without thought and offers her his hand, feeling possessive; she takes it and he pulls her to her feet as easily as picking up a baby lamb. They join the dancers in the circle about the roaring fire, and he gets caught up in the whirl of movement, the fast-paced motions of the jig. He remembers the steps from his teenaged years – years in which he danced with nearly every girl within ten miles of Thwaite, yet never really noticing any of them because he secretly harbored a hidden fancy for Mary.

And then, quite suddenly, he realizes that Mary is following his movements almost perfectly, faltering only on some of the more difficult steps, and he wonders how she knows the dance so well. She doesn't seem to be having any difficulty in keeping up with the swirling figures about them. When they meet again after going through a series of change-offs with other partners, he opens his mouth to demand an answer, but she merely smirks at him and says airily, "Colin and I snuck after you once when you went to one of these bonfires, and then we practiced by ourselves later. You could have invited us along, you know. Even if it would have been awkward for us to come. We finally demanded Uncle Archie have someone give us lessons because, really! It's silly for someone to be raised in Yorkshire and not know the local dances! So he hired Mrs. Whyte and we went into Thwaite once a week for a year, and danced with each other until we knew them by heart."

He stares at her, utterly stunned, but before he can respond they turn to face new partners and the tempo speeds up; he finds himself with a young lady who looks delighted to be dancing with handsome Dickon Sowerby, and when he passes Mary a moment later he discovers she's with the young boy who asked her to dance earlier – and the lad looks completely thrilled at his luck, damn it all.

Another set of turns and they link hands only to slide past each other to someone else. He glances over his shoulder and sees her with another young man he remembers from his youth, who gives him a haughty look and twirls Mary under his arm, holding her far too close for Dickon's liking.

The steps become even more complicated and he must focus on whose hand to grasp next; on the other side of the fire, he and Mary meet again. Her face is flushed, her eyes are overly bright, and her hair, which was done up in tight curls and barrettes, is coming loose. When her hands slide into his he can feel the sweat on her palms and, unconsciously, he releases one of her hands in order to loosen the top two buttons of his shirt. Mary's eyes flicker to the triangle of his damp chest and he sees her breathing hitch; he smirks at her, pleased with this reaction.

"I don' like thee dancin' wit' other men," he states baldly.

She shrugs one sleek shoulder as he twirls her under his arm. "An' I don' like thee dancin' wit' other lasses. Does that make us even, then?"

"Aye, I think it does."

They swirl away from each other again and he doesn't even notice the women whose hands he grasps in succession as he makes his way back around the circle to where he started originally with Mary.

When the song finally ends, he is chest to chest with her once more, perhaps much closer than necessary, but he feels as though his blood won't cool and she's doing nothing to help the way his heart is racing madly. Her palms slip against his, her eyes glow at him. It is as though she cannot see anyone else but him, and he doesn't even hear the locals murmuring under their breath how strange it is for a lady to want to marry a commoner, even if it is Dickon Sowerby.

Two hours later, as they are walking back to Misselthwaite together, taking the long way through the moor in hopes that no one from the manor will notice them, he can't help but keep his arm tight about her waist, her body flush to his.

"Thank you," she murmurs, as the huge estate comes into view. "For taking me this evening."

He stops and gazes at her in the moonlight, how her hair seems silver instead of honey-blond, how she looks almost surreal and fairy-like in a dress of shimmering pale blue. He bends and kisses her, savoring the way she lingers against his mouth and traces a finger down the slit of his chest visible through his shirt.

In a week... in just a week...

"I'd best get thee home," he mutters, dragging his lips along the line of her jaw to her ear. His hands curl over her hip, bringing her closer. "Before someone starts t' wonder about thee."

"Mm." She twists into his arms and kisses him more deeply. "In a bit."

A bit turns into thirty minutes; she finally whispers against his mouth that perhaps they should go to the garden rather than just stand on the path where anyone could stumble upon them, if anyone were out this late for some reason.

And suddenly, the thought of being alone with her in the garden, late at night after the sun has set, where they can lie in the cool grass together and where no one could find them...where he can make love to her until dawn...does something to him that nothing else in their courtship has done. In a rush, he comes back to himself; he _makes_ himself pull away from her, because he's far too close to giving in this time, far too close to not caring; simply because it's so close to their wedding, so why would it even matter? He could easily tug at her hand and she would follow him without question; she would probably strip away his clothing as quickly as he wants to strip away hers. There's too much lust for him to think straight, and if he doesn't stop it now, he won't have another chance. He'll be too far gone; he almost is now. He's so close to giving in... _so close_...

Gasping for breath, he says in a ragged voice, " _No_."

For a moment, she stares at him in the darkness, startled by the harshness in his tone. He doesn't think she fully comprehends what it does to him when she innocently traces her finger along his skin. She can't know the thoughts racing in his mind, of pushing her clothes away and touching her, making her his. He swallows and rakes a hand through his hair, which has grown out more in the months since his return from France. He has to make her understand this. He must.

"We canna. If we go t' th' garden now..." He briefly nuzzles his nose against hers, brushes his mouth to hers, tasting her one more time because he needs the inexplicable rush that tasting her gives him, even if it makes it twice as hard as before to pull away a second time. "It's not proper, Mary. Tha knows it's not. We'd be t' far gone, th' both o' us."

He feels her smile against his neck, feels her fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt, against his skin, down his chest – she's opened two more buttons since they stopped on the edge of the walk to kiss for half an hour. Maybe she _does_ know how he feels. Maybe she does understand the powerful explosion of lust. But they can't...

"Tha's probably right," she whispers, pulling back and stepping out of his grasp, even as he reaches for her and touches air. "Only a week, though," she adds sadly. "I keep telling myself that, and yet it seems to make it so much harder, Dickon."

"Aye. I know, lass. Trust me." He sighs heavily, his hands dropping to his sides. "I know."

They stand in silence, before he finally pulls away completely and gestures for her to walk ahead of him up the path. He takes her to a side door of the manor that she's left unlocked so they can slip back in, and they part ways on the stairs, glancing back at each other once, hardly daring to breath because it's so hard to leave each other when, in a week, they won't have to be apart again.


	29. Run Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Dickon race each other.

****

## Run Free

****

She sits in a white wicker chair upon the neatly trimmed lawn, the pale yellow chiffon skirt of her dress flowing in folds to her ankles, her wide-brimmed hat with its shimmering white and yellow ribbons shielding her face from the glare of the mid-morning sun. She is reading an advanced text in Japanese; enjoying the difficulties of translating the foreign language that she first started studying in London two years previously. Occasionally, she sips tea from a fine porcelain cup with a dainty pattern of roses; the china her late aunt once selected in honor of her wedding to Lord Craven.

Weddings – the very thought of them almost makes her laugh, for Colin has told her of all the frustrations some of his older friends are experiencing as they plan their own nuptials. However, _she_ has had very little to do for her own. It will be nothing to hang a few white ribbons in the garden the morning of the event, and there will be no reception or dinner party afterwards. She has not visited any of the London stores to select china or crystal or random bric-a-brac, for she is certain her cousin and uncle will supply the actual _necessities_ for the home she will be living in by the end of the week. Extra things will just be clutter. And it has been very nice, she thinks, not to have any irritation of nerves over minute details and guest lists and all of that. If she were marrying a lord or a captain in the armed forces, she would never be allowed to sit on the lawn on such a beautiful summer morning, reading and drinking tea as though she had no cares in the world. Which she doesn't, thankfully. Not really.

A sudden shout of laughter diverts her attention from this peaceful solitude, and she looks up in surprise as a voice yells, "Come on then, you can do better than that, Sowerby!"

Two young men round the hedges of a nearby garden at nearly full speed, the younger slightly in front but the older upon his heels, their shirts long since stripped and their suspenders hanging by hooks on their belts, their chests and arms glistening with sweat in the sun, their hair slightly windblown and damp from exertion.

Colin hits the wide stretch of lawn first and breaks into an all-out sprint; Dickon follows, his longer legs finally gaining the level ground they need to get past his friend, and the two men race each other evenly towards the far side of the manor, both grinning and laughing and flushed from excitement.

Of course, Lord Craven selects this particular moment to step out onto the flagstone veranda, just as the boys reach the middle of the lawn and fly past him. He sighs heavily and glances once at his niece in resignation; she giggles before quickly shifting her eyes back to her book to avoid staring at her soon-to-be husband.

It was Colin's idea for the two of them to run daily while he is home for the rest of the summer, and the exercise seems to be doing Dickon a great deal of good. In just four days, he is already running harder and further than he could have done before. And Colin has stated quite plainly that he wishes to continue it even after the wedding, excluding a few days for Dickon and Mary to be alone with each other, of course.

They round the corner, jostling for first, and disappear - but the sound of boots against gravel echo even to Mary's chair.

"I sometimes fear," Lord Craven remarks, "there's no hope for _either_ of them."

Mary actually laughs at his dry humor as she places her book upon the wicker table next to the chair and picks up her teacup. "No," she agrees, smiling towards him. "Probably not."

And she's not sure if she doesn't prefer it this way; it's one many things she loves about her boys.


	30. Into the Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon's wedding.

****

## Into the Sunlight

****

If anyone knows that the human heart can experience a multitude of emotions at one time, it is Dickon. A year ago, he felt so many that he could hardly believe his heart wasn't going to explode within his chest and kill him, and more than once he honestly believed that even death would be better than a semi-existence on a bloody battlefield. He had forgotten, briefly, that there were other emotions aside from fear, panic, sadness, depression, and anger. He had almost forgotten he was human.

But pendulums always swing the opposite way, and now it feels as though his heart may burst from happiness, joy, awe, content...from simply being _full_.

It is amazing the things that one will notice in the moment that is destined to change their life completely. For him, he sees the roses. Never mind anything else: he sees the fountains of pale pink spilling across the garden that Lilias Craven created twenty years ago. He knows her spirit must linger within this place, and he can imagine her standing among the summer blossoms even now, smiling brightly at those gathered within her garden.

A brightness that lives on in her son – for he does catch a momentary glimpse of Colin's real smile – not the sarcastic one they're all so accustomed to seeing when he's teasing and laughing and being _Colin_ , but the one he reserves for rare occasions. The one that makes his entire face seem to glow and his eyes glitter in the early afternoon sunlight. The one that shows what a man he has become from the rajah child he was.

On the other hand, is oblivious to his mother's and Lord Craven's expressions, and he never once looks towards his siblings - the few that came. He thinks Martha might be sniffling into her Sunday dress as Mary repeats the words the pastor tells her to repeat, because that would be like Martha. And honestly, he's not even really paying attention to the pastor, except to repeat his own lines.

The robin is darting about though – cheerful little chap that he is. It is impossible _not_ to notice the robin. He is best man, and never mind Colin, who is just standing in the place where the best man should be standing. Colin is merely filling the space, because the robin prefers to flutter from trees to roses to walls, chirping and busying himself with pomp and circumstance. Because it is not in the nature of robins to remain still and silent. He has to remind himself not to chirp back.

But he can't seem to stop glancing out of the corners of his eyes at Mary, who stands beside him in a simple white gown, without all the lace and frills that normal wealthy girls would have. She keeps glancing at him too, for he's caught her eye four times now, and he must keep from laughing - though he wants to laugh very much indeed. He wants to laugh because it's almost too good to be true, because eight years ago he didn't think it was possible, because two years ago he thought he would be dead in two days, because even when he came back he had trouble seeing beyond the beautiful lady and finding the pretty child who adored him so, regardless of his position. He wants to laugh because it's a gorgeous day and because the robin is bouncing across the lawn towards the pastor in a bold sidestep as though challenging a man of the clergy as well, because surely the pastor is going on in a long-winded fashion and a robin could do much, _much_ better.

Mary must see the bird too, because she's trying desperately hard not to smile at the little thing herself.

(Later, he will find he that remembers nothing else about the ceremony – he must have said "I do" and Mary must have said the same thing...but all he really noticed about that _particular_ moment was the way the sunlight made her eyes so incredibly like the sky – a light, shimmering, sparkling baby blue with a couple of stray wisps of honey-blond hair across her soft skin. And he does remember thinking, in that crucial moment, that he hoped their first child would have Mary's eyes instead of his, and then he had to stop himself from laughing again because surely Mary was hoping the opposite.)

And as they make their way towards the old, weathered door to leave the place they love so much, to ride out to their new home, he hears Ben Weatherstaff – despite the man's age and loss of hearing – remark in a dry, brittle, but pleased voice, "If tha'll forgive me, Master Craven, I thought I saw th' lady o' the manor throwin' rose petals at th' bride! Mun 'ave been a trick o' th' light, though. Th' sun is verra bright t'day, tha knows. A good omen methinks, jus' th' same."

Colin pretends to sound confused. "A good omen that the sun is bright?"

"Aye." The smile is evident in Ben's raspy voice, as is the dry snort. "Th' sun indeed, lad."

He glances back over his shoulder, and to his surprise, there are rose petals all about, where he isn't positive there were any before. He wonders if there was any breeze to spread them over the lawn, but he can't remember a breeze.

But perhaps it doesn't matter much. Either way, it must be as Ben says: a good omen.


	31. It's All Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon's wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by the Beatles, released in 1969.
> 
> Note: This chapter doesn't go into graphic detail, but takes place afterwards.
> 
> ~BD

****

## It's All Too Much

****

She thought it would take getting use to, this intimacy of sharing a bed. But she was wrong, very wrong indeed. And she tries not to laugh at her former, rather silly ideas. She only had her imagination for this moment before it happened, as such things were never really discussed within her circle of friends in London. That would have been highly improper.

Slowly, so as not to wake her husband, she places her slender arm over his where it has wrapped about her waist – over the hard, wiry muscles in his forearm that she loves to draw her fingers across. She presses her back into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her shoulder blade, smooth and steady and even, like his breathing. He tightens his hold on her in his sleep, and she rests her head against the crook between his shoulder and arm and chest, feeling immeasurably safe and secure.

What _will_ take getting use to is the feel of their previous actions. The intense connection that seemed to magically happen between them, the insight into the swelling emotions they both felt as they became a part of each other. The odd stretching within her centre, the brief flash of pain followed by being _full_ , the building of sweat and pressure and wonder. She never thought anything could be that _much_. There is no other way she can describe it except that it was so _much_ , so very _much_. She wants to feel that again. The way her body reacted to his and the way she felt as his soul touched hers. And she wants to practice and get it right, just perfect...because despite their intense attraction towards each other, they still fumbled a bit, having never done it before.

She sighs softly, for even though they aren't making love right now, the way they fit together in the dark is also magical. It is something that no one can take from her, and she likes the way it feels more than anything else in the world. The way their legs tangle beneath the soft sheets, the way his chin rests against her shoulder and his nose in her hair, the feel of his slow breathing against her scalp, the faint scent of wood and musk in the air.

And she suddenly realizes that she is crying – not from sadness, but because the feeling is just too _much_. She brushes her cheek with her free wrist and stares across the room in the darkness, trying to remind herself that he isn't going anywhere, that she has him for the rest of her life, that she has that amount of time to come to grips with how much she feels and how wonderful it all is. That she must get control of herself, because nothing about this is bad. Just good.

She feels him stir against her, pulling her closer and tighter against him. And against the skin behind her ear, she feels his lips flutter in a soft whisper, "Wha's wrong, love?"

She shakes her head slightly and twists in his arms to face him, bringing them closer together in a different way. "It's... it's so _much_ ," she confesses, almost hopelessly, her voice barely audible. For it must be the middle of the night and it feels as though she is in a cocoon with him, locked away from the world. She doesn't want to speak loudly, for everything may shatter if she does. "All of it. It's just so _much_." Her voice trembles. "I love you, Dickon."

She feels him smile against her temple, feels his lips move to place a light kiss there. "Mm. I know what tha means. As though tha's full o' somethin' tha canna describe."

"Yes, that's it." She pauses, then adds shyly, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Tha didn'. I was sleepin' light."

She twists her arms tightly around his neck, relishing the hard strength in his body, nuzzling against his throat. The feeling of skin on skin is just as _much_ as everything else. He shifts with her, pressing her back into the mattress and sliding partially on top of her to trail feather-light kisses along her neck and collarbone.

"Tha's mine," he whispers, his accent heavier than usual from sleep. "I still canna believe it, even holdin' thee now."

"I wish..." She hesitates, then smiles and rakes her fingers into his hair, bringing him up to her face again so she can just see his eyes in the darkness, reflecting what little starlight comes in through the curtains. "In a way, I wish that tonight would just never end, you know. But at the same time, I canna wait t' see t'morrow."

He chuckles and kisses her, one hand on her hip and the other tracing her cheek, his weight on his elbow and one knee. "Aye. I know that feeling, too."


	32. Cece's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin gets drunk, reflects on Dickon and Mary's marriage, meets an American girl, talks too much, and escapes a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Drake, released in 2010.
> 
> This is another "Colin reflects on women" chapter.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Cece's Interlude

****

The champagne is too bubbly and the strings of Chinese lanterns are too bright.

Or maybe too dim.

...Or maybe he's had one too many and he reached his limit ten minutes ago.

He glances at the glass in his hand with random disgust, thinking that perhaps he _shouldn't_ polish it off, because he's only drinking at this social party to drown a few sorrows and really, that's not exactly like him on the whole. What was he thinking, again?

He can't remember.

Damn it.

Annoyed with himself, he turns to find a waiter with a silver tray to deposit his half-empty glass, but there are none around, for he's wandered out to the edge of the gardens in a fit of nostalgia and he's a good fifty feet from the rest of the soiree, hidden in partial darkness.

So then he wonders if he can just toss the bloody crystal stemware into the river on the other side of the railing; if the Harveys would notice the next day that they were one crystal champagne flute short of a set of fifty. It's an amusing thought, actually. Worth giving it a try...

"Mr. Craven?"

The voice sounds a lot louder than it really is and he turns with a wince. Behind him stands a woman in a lovely dress that shows exactly what a man would want to see, but not enough to look gaudy or improper. It's not a style from mainland Europe or Britain, either. He fights to remember her name; someone introduced him earlier to the girl from...Boston, he thinks? Maybe Concord? Oh, hell, maybe it was Halifax. Isn't she a friend of the Harveys, or something like that? He presses one hand to his temple and tries to clear his vision by shutting his eyes tightly and reopening them.

Doesn't work.

Blast.

He's really had _way_ too much to drink. How on earth did he let his judgment go?

Her lips quirk, as though she's guessed his very thoughts. "You've had far too much to drink, I think. Come now, let's get you home before Mr. Harvey find you."

"Are _you_ taking me home?" He squints slightly. Her hair is a shade off from Mary's, and he vaguely remembers _why_ he was drinking so much – a fashionable London soiree is nothing to the wilds of the lonely, beautiful Yorkshire moors. And yet, there was nothing to do at Misselthwaite after his cousin married one of his closest friends. Except sit around and wonder if they might fancy leaving their bedroom to visit the manor during the following week. God, he doesn't even want to think about it. Which was why he left and returned to London.

"No, Mr. Craven. Your _valet_ is taking you home, of course." The girl smiles at him, as though she finds him very entertaining. Bloody American humor. Definitely not from Halifax, he thinks sourly.

"I'm sorry." Despite his irritation, he feels the odd need to apologize. "I'm not myself tonight."

"Clearly." She almost giggles the word. "Mr. Harvey informed me you weren't one to drink, and that if any of the other young men got tipsy I should seek you out if I needed sober company."

"Oh, God." He rubs his hand over his face and turns back to the river. Of course. Mr. Harvey holds him in high regard, so naturally tonight he decided to get drunk. "You can't let him find me," he pleads, glancing back at her nervously. "Because he's right; I really don't drink like this, not often I mean, but..." His brow furrows, he pauses, then muses, "Have you ever heard of Yorkshire?"

"Contrary to popular belief, we _Yanks_ aren't ignorant of England's geography, you know."

"No, I didn't mean that, I meant... I don't even know what I meant. You're very pretty," he adds. Does he sound hopeful? Bloody hell. God help him.

"Thank you, but perhaps you should tell me why you're not sober for once, Mr. Craven. Before Mr. Harvey finds you."

"Colin."

"Cece."

"Is that your real –?"

"No, it's a nickname. My initials," she explains, smiling up at him. "Now, why are you so drunk?"

"My cousin. She got married, see." Blast, he's not explaining himself well. But it seems he can't remember vocabulary at all. And she is very pretty.

"Ah. Your cousin."

"She and I were close. Like...brother and sister. ...oh, hell! No! I mean – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear in front of you, I meant –" He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "I mean; no one knows she's married!"

"Did she _have_ to get married?" she asks patiently.

He stares at her, his expression blank, and she rolls her eyes.

"Was she pregnant?" she clarifies.

"Oh! No, no. She was just hopelessly in love. Well, I guess she still _is_ hopelessly in love."

"Oh. Well, then, do you like the man she married?"

"Of course I do. He's one of my closest friends. But no one knows _that_ , either."

"Then what's the problem?" She taps her finger against the champagne flute, watching him curiously, without judging.

"They're both my closest friends. I mean, really close. We grew up together. I feel a little...left out. Now that they're married."

The words sound childish. Ridiculous, even. But they still hurt. They still sting, despite the alcohol in his system. He knew it years ago, whenever he caught them glancing at each other across the garden. He didn't want to believe it then, but he can't pretend otherwise now.

Again, as though she's read his thoughts, she says sympathetically, "Drinking won't dull it, you know."

He nods, like a sullen child. "I know."

She grins. "You're going to have a hangover from hell tomorrow."

Startled by her language, he bursts into laughter. "Where are you from, again?"

"Boston, Colin. Boston."

"Lovely town, that."

She laughs with him. " _I_ think so."

"How long are you staying?"

"Just until the end of autumn. And don't get ideas. I'm likely going to get engaged when I return to the States."

"Of course you are! He's a lucky guy, whoever he is."

She takes his arm and starts to lead him into a secluded garden, away from the party. He thinks the path probably ends up out at the drive, where he can catch his ride back to his father's townhouse, because to hope for anything else is silly.

As the sounds of the party become quieter, she says gently, "Don't worry. I'm certain you'll find someone as special as your cousin."

"I don't know." He becomes sulky again. "I don't think so."

"You're giving yourself far too little credit. Nearly every eligible girl I've met here has mentioned your name in a hopeful tone."

"Really?" He squints at her again, as though trying to determine if she's telling the truth.

"Yes, _really_. You're one of the most popular bachelors in London for all you are young. But I think you should be very choosy, Colin. Don't settle for the first pretty girl to cross your path, just because you're feeling left out between your cousin and your friend."

"That's what my cousin says."

"I like her already. Is she here tonight? I've not met her."

"No. She lives in Yorkshire." He stops abruptly, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Oh, blast! You can't tell anyone," he says urgently, turning to face the American girl. "No one knows – they can't find out. I promised," he adds anxiously. "She wasn't pregnant, but... Well, some people… They wouldn't understand why she married who she did. He's one of my best mates, but still... He's... He's not quite... not the same socially, I mean..." Rats, he sounds like an idiot. "I swear," he mutters, holding his head in one hand, "I'm never going to drink this much again."

A look of understanding flickers in her hazel eyes. "I won't tell anyone, Colin. You have my word."

He nods, hoping to God she's telling the truth. "Thank you. For... um..." He glances at the car. His valet looks stoic, which really irritates him. The man will never let him live this one down.

"You're very welcome. I'll call on you tomorrow to make certain you're all right."

He nods again, then winces and whispers conspiratorially, "I may have ice on my head when you come by."

"I would hope so. And a cup of coffee in your other hand."

The valet steps forward and opens the door. "Mr. Colin," he says, his voice monotone.

"Not so loud, _please_ , Carlton." He stumbles on the running board before collapsing in the back seat and leaning his head against the cool leather.

"As you wish, Mr. Colin."

As the valet walks around the car, he glances once out of the window, and Cece waves at him with a pleasant, bemused smile.

Nice girl, that, he thinks vaguely. Damned smart of her to take him in stride, when he's never like this. He hopes he can make it up to her on the morrow when he's sober again.


	33. This Everyday Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary cooks dinner, with disastrous results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Rascal Flatts, released in 2000.
> 
> ~BD

****

## This Everyday Love

****

He wishes her eyes didn't look so large and doe-like and hopeful, because it's taking all he can do not to grimace and tell her the truth.

"I did it just as Cook explained it to me," she says anxiously. She's standing there in a white apron speckled with brown soup splatters, and it looks odd on her lithe frame. It's tangible proof that she spent the afternoon in the kitchen, instead of in her new garden or in their tiny study full of books (wedding gifts from Colin, mostly).

He glances down at the bowl in front of him. It smells worse then it tastes, but he's not certain if that's a plus or a minus.

"Well," he says, "tha's jus' learnin', tha knows, so it'll probably take –"

The words have slipped out of his mouth before he quite realizes he's even said them, and Mary's eyes instantly fill with tears. He may as well have taken a knife and stabbed her with it. Her lower lip trembles; he half-rises to dart about the table towards her, to correct this awful mistake, but she buries her face in her hands and flees to the kitchen with a sob.

He winces and slides back into his seat at their table, wondering if he would have said as much when he was twelve and if she would have reacted the same way. How _could_ he have said that just now? He's perfectly aware that age and love change people. That she values his opinion more than anyone else's, now.

As if to punish himself, he looks down at the soup bowl miserably, takes up the spoon again, and begins to eat. He's had worse, after all...and he's had less before, too...so there's no sense in _not_ eating it. He _is_ glad his siblings aren't there to tease him, however; to remind him of all the moor girls about the countryside who learned to cook at the age of three because they had to, and do it smashingly well, and would be able to feed him better than Mary.

Ten minutes later, he hesitantly steps into the kitchen to place the empty bowl in the sink, and finds her sitting on a low stool by the fire, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. The tears are gone, replaced by shimmering, crystalline traces upon her pale cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, without looking up at him. Perhaps she heard his footsteps, no matter how quiet he was trying to be. "I'm not very good at this, am I?" She sniffs and blinks, and a couple of stray tears slowly slide down the dry tracks, wetting her face again.

He sighs and gently kneels in front of her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "Tha's learnin', Mary. Tha never had t' cook before." He doesn't voice the fact that if she hadn't married him, she still wouldn't have to cook.

"It was really awful, wasn't it?" she admits in a small, broken voice. "But I did it just the way Cook told me! I was sure I did! I've no idea what I did wrong!"

"If it makes tha feel better, I've had worse." He forces a grim smile.

She makes a tiny, watery sound akin to a chuckle and runs her wrist beneath her eyes. "It doesn't."

"Does tha want me t' help thee, until tha learns more?"

"No!" She looks utterly aghast at the idea. "You shouldn't _have_ to! You have too many duties at Misselthwaite and it isn't fair that you should have to come home and your wife not even have a decent meal ready for you!"

He can see the tears welling up again, the shiver in her pretty lower lip as she fights not to cry any more than she already has.

"Well, then, perhaps once or twice a week, mother can come by an' help thee. Or tha can go t' mother's," he suggests. He'd rather his mother's cooking anyways, over Cook's at the manor.

She turns her gaze back to the low fire, as though contemplating this idea. "I don't want to burden her with that," she whispers.

"She'd like it right nice, I should think. Wha' with Bennie and Phil...dead, an' all..." He swallows and plows on, "An' th' older girls out working or married, tha knows. Tha'd be good company for her."

"Well..." She plays with the hem of the apron, still pouty. "Very well. I'll stop by tomorrow and ask her. It might be nice. She'd have more patience with me then Cook does. And there's not much to do here during the day. The house couldn't be cleaner – I've done nothing else for the past two weeks."

"Aye, an' once mother gets thee cookin' as good as tha keeps house, tha can come visit me durin' th' day some. I'd like that."

She glances up at him, almost innocently. After all, his request _wasn't_ innocent and she knows it; the first day he went back to work after spending a blissful week with her after their wedding, she traipsed up to the gardens to visit him randomly and he didn't get _back_ to work for nearly an hour. It was worth it, though – he can't deny that. He even told her he'd like it if they could manage such things almost every day. The trouble is, he has to work and she has to learn to cook; otherwise they won't have _any_ money and they'll both starve.

Smiling at her and at the memory, he leans in and kisses her softly; a lingering, teasing kiss that makes her nearly slip off the stool and into his arms.

"Dickon, stop, I've mun wash up th' dishes," she protests, but he ignores her and begins to tug at the sash of the apron, then at the small buttons up the back of her simple dress.

"Dickon!" He feels her swallow as his fingers skim the pearly skin of her back; her throat is against his temple as his lips move over her collarbone, now exposed from his unfastening buttons.

"Tha can wash th' dishes later, can't tha? I'll help thee wit' 'em..."

She squirms slightly on the stool; he feels her skin flush beneath his hands as he pushes the dress to her hips and his fingers nimbly go to her corset.

"I should do them _now_ ," she argues, her hands threaded in his hair, "before that awful concoction permanently attaches itself to the pot and the soup bowls!"

He chuckles at the idea – it's highly possible. But he's almost got the corset open, so what's the point in stopping now?

"I _promise_ t' help thee," he murmurs, sliding her off of the stool and onto the floor.

She gives him another watery smile, her buttery hair spread across the dark wooden boards. "Tha's a right swift worker on those buttons, Dickon Sowerby. Who taught thee such naughty things?"

He grins back at her, thankful that the argument is temporarily forgotten – thankful her fingers are working on _his_ shirt buttons. "This pretty girl with blonde hair, actually." And before she can respond, he bends and kisses her deeply. The dishes will just have to wait.


	34. Almost Lucy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin attends the theatre with his friends, and reflects on another society girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Al Stewart, released in 1978.
> 
> After this story evolved from a "collection of one-shots" to an actual story, I decided I would have Colin explore various attributes of different girls he was acquainted with in London society, before eventually settling on someone "just right", maaaaaaany chapters down the line and in the 1920's. Cece was originally only created as a temporary character to "push the story along"; the first of many girls I had in mind for Colin to mull over before moving on. However, to my surprise, she somehow took over (though some of my regular readers were quite happy to see it happen). I am not a fan of OC's myself, and to be perfectly honest, I was wary to continue with her. So if you aren't a fan of OC's either, you have my complete understanding. I only respectfully ask that you do not flame me or berate me for her, if you select to continue the story.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Almost Lucy

****

He can't help but watch as a young woman ascends the grand staircase, one satin-gloved hand upon the marble banister and the other daintily holding her long, glittering, pale blue-silver dress. Her figure is small and perfect, like a china doll; her complexion smooth and milky. She is at the center of a cluster of girls, clearly the one commanding the most attention. The leader, so to speak. Her eyes sparkle and her mouth quirks with hidden laughter, until she glances up the stairs and notices his obvious curiosity. Instead of blushing, her lips curve, daring him to step closer. Daring him to speak to her...

He almost does, when Alexander stops him and says quietly, "Lucille Bentworth. She's just entering society this season. She's seventeen."

"Ah."

Colin says nothing more and does not pursue his interest, for it is always better to think before acting. Only once they are seated in his private box does he voice an opinion, and even then he keeps it light.

"Pretty girl," he muses airily as he relaxes in the plush seat. He seems to be noticing more of them lately, as the autumn season gets underway.

Alexander makes a noise of agreement, before adding derisively, "But her father is a pain in the arse, I hear. And so is she, for that matter."

His mouth turns down slightly at this information. He doesn't need to court a girl who will turn into the worst kind of wife, no matter how pretty she is.

Across the void of space to the opposite side of the theatre, where more box seats rise to the domed ceiling, he can see the young woman named Lucille Bentworth taking her own seat, primly keeping her back arched and her nose slightly lifted as she takes in the other people seated in other boxes and in the cheap seats. Her eyes meet Colin's once more and she gives him the same smile she did earlier, as though pleased to see he has his own box and hoping he will pay her the slightest attention from even this distance.

Before he can sort out varying emotions, he feels a slender hand touch his shoulder.

Startled, he turns and comes face to face with Cece, the American girl he befriended a couple of weeks earlier. She takes the seat beside him, leans in, and whispers, "I wouldn't get too interested in her, if I were you."

"Interested in who?" he asks, almost mulishly. Why must Cece be able to see through him so easily? It's really quite irritating at times. She's nearly as bad as Mary is about that.

She ignores his annoyance and chuckles, keeping her eyes on Lucille, whose expression has turned ugly and stormy at seeing a bloody yankee sitting next to attractive, wealthy, _single_ Colin Craven.

"She's interested in you, you know," Cece breathes against his ear, so that Alexander won't overhear her (though he's too busy flirting with Ethel Harbough in the box beside them to notice anything else). Colin fights not to shiver at the way her breath makes his skin tingle, and wonders blindly if she knows her lips are nearly touching his earlobe as she continues, "But she's also asking around about your cousin. Inquiring where Mary is, why she's no longer in London, in society, that sort of thing."

His heart nearly stops. He tries to come up with a coherent reply, but only manages, "She...what?"

Cece sits up and leans forward, pretending to examine the orchestra tuning up in the pit, and he almost feels cold at the abrupt change, the sudden distance between them. She murmurs, "She's a right little piece of work. A little snake, really."

Colin meets Lucille's eyes again, but this time, his show defiance and anger. Before she can question him with a return expression from across the huge opera house, he looks away, pretending to be more than unusually interested in Cece, actually leaning over to whisper in her ear against his better judgment.

"I'll keep away from her, then."

He senses, rather then hears or sees, her slight intake of breath as his own brushes against the shell of her ear. He wonders if he makes her skin tingle the way she makes his. He sort of wishes he could.

"A wise decision," she remarks, trying to keep her voice light. "Earlier, I was afraid you were almost going to go up and speak to her. Sometimes I wonder at your sense, Colin. Or if they teach you anything at King's College besides how to down a shot of whiskey."

He notices the way her gloved hands clench slightly in her lap, as though trying to maintain poise. As though her banter can mask other feelings.

On purpose, he breathes against her ear again, murmuring, "I suppose I should allow you to manage my romantic affairs then, shouldn't I?"

"I'll see what I can do," is the playful response, but he notices the way her back arches, and his eyes discretely follow the curve of her spine beneath her dark red velvet gown, almost wanting to trace it with his hand.

"Bloody hell, you two, get a room." Alexander's irritated voice ends their cozy tête-à-tête, much to Colin's aggravation. "If you don't watch it, rumors will be flying about, and they'll cross the pond to your side, Cece. Your fiancée won't like it at all."

Cece rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Alex. I'm not engaged _yet_ , and Randolph is mature enough not to believe idle gossip. He's thirty-two, for God's sake, and much more interested in his investments now that the war's over, then trying to follow the intricacies and nuances of London society. He knows Colin is only standing up with me here as per the Harveys' wishes, and he approves of the idea."

Alexander opens his mouth to retort, but the theatre lights dim twice, and the audience falls silent, ending the potential argument.

But Colin finds he can't really concentrate on the play, because Cece's words keep ringing in his head. And his skin still seems to hum pleasantly from her lips so close to his ear.


	35. Circle Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon remembers the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1968.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Circle Sky

****

He wakes one morning in early September with a sense of dread, though he isn't certain how to explain it to anyone else.

The sun isn't up yet. The sky is a dark gray with a paler gray-pinkish line against the edge of sky and earth, and as he looks out the window upon the moor, he sucks in a quick, cold breath and feels his body stiffen uncontrollably.

A year ago today, a shell hit an eighteen-pounder and killed three of his comrades, and sent him home a wounded man.

If he closes his eyes, the memories will rush back fresh and raw, as though he were still standing upon the muddy, ruined battlefields of the War to End All Wars.

He indulges in this sick fancy for a brief moment before wrenching himself back to the present.

Glancing towards the bed he just vacated, he can see his wife's pale golden tresses spread across her pillow, one shoulder peeking from beneath the quilt, and the strap of nightgown sliding off of it. She breathes evenly, having never seen the horrors of war, and having no reason to remember what this day means to him.

Or what a dozen other days mean to him, for that matter. The day Carroll died, the day he first killed a man, the day he first saw a man ripped open to expose the insides, the major battles that he can't forget, the wounded soldiers in pain. He keeps track of these days and numerous others in his head, on a calendar that only makes sense to him. And so he wakes on various mornings and gazes across the moor, sinking into memories and fighting to pull out of them. He hopes that one day, he won't have to fight so hard. That one day, the memories will fade somewhat.

His wife stirs, rolling over onto her back. Her hand slides across the soft sheets, reaching for him in sleep. Only this time, her fingers can't find the warm body that is supposed to lie beside her, and her palm presses to the bed, patting this way and that in an attempt to get hold of him. Her eyes finally flutter open and she blinks in sleepy confusion, before she props up and realizes he's at the window.

Yawning and sinking back into the pillows, she mumbles, "What are you doing, Dickon?"

He smiles wanly and meanders back to the bed, crawling in beside her and pulling her to him. "I was jus' watchin' the dawn."

"Mm." She snuggles into the embrace, still too much asleep to question him further, accepting his answer as it is.

He doesn't bother to inform her of the real reasons. He allows her to drift back to sleep, keeping his arms around her body. She brought him back and healed him, after all.

And so his circle is back at the beginning, it seems.


	36. Come Into the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece have a discussion about another girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Nick Drake, released in 2007.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Come Into the Garden

****

"You're being horribly boorish, you know."

Colin shrugs half-heartedly at the barb, because he doesn't much care if he's being boorish at all, and he doesn't move from where he's leaning over the high stonework in which a variety of leafy, tropical plants are flourishing, despite the early autumn chill outside. Conservatories are, by far, most useful inventions. He loves them, if he can't be in a real garden.

"She won't dare come in here, she loathes gardens, and you know it! That's why you're doing this. You can't fool me, Colin."

He smiles at the second comment aimed for his ears, for it is only the truth. Maud Dorset _won't_ come in here, which is exactly why he _is_ here.

"Mr. Harvey thinks you've left early."

At this, he finally speaks. "Mr. Harvey knows perfectly well where I am. He's given me explicit permission to come here during parties, because it's always closed off to the other guests. He knows I don't like Maud."

He doesn't need to see the smirk of satisfaction upon the speaker's lips, pleased that she has finally managed to induce a remark from him. After a moment or so, she leans against the decorative stonework as well, her body quite close to his. Their arms actually brush together, from wrists to elbows to shoulders. He stiffens slightly – a reaction that seems to be occurring more and more frequently whenever they are physically close to each other. It's better then acting on his instincts, though. He'd lose their friendship if he acted on instinct.

Sympathetically, she bumps his shoulder lightly with hers, and chides, "You needn't be so sullen. How on earth did Mary ever put up with you? I should write and ask her."

Colin turns away and moves to another portion of the large glass room, further from the oaken entrance archway that leads back to the rest of the Harveys' mansion. He isn't in a mood to think about Mary right now. "If you desire someone who isn't sullen," he says darkly, "then you'd best go back to the party, Clara."

She giggles. " _That_ isn't it, either."

He mutters mutinously, reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a small notepad, opens it, and crosses a line through _Clara_. He's been trying desperately to guess the girl's initials for the past bloody week, but without any success. Or, at least, any success that he's aware of. Cece seems to be intent on keeping him in the dark as to her real name, as if it's a good joke.

To her.

He wonders why he's suddenly so obsessed with it, when three weeks ago he didn't care one way or the other. It seems the idea of figuring it out has just wormed its way into his head, because it's a mystery, and because she refuses to indulge him.

"I could just write Randolph," he threatens under his breath. He hates that name, to tell the truth, when three weeks ago he didn't care much about _Randolph_ , either. What the hell is wrong with him, lately?

She giggles. "He's too busy to answer you unless you have an investment prospect for him. That, he might like, however."

"Charlotte?"

"Absolutely not!"

He opens his mouth to make another guess, but she forestalls him.

"Should I tell Mr. Harvey you intend to remain in his conservatory for the remainder of the party, because you're avoiding Maud?"

Colin becomes sullen again. Maud is several years his senior, and quite unmarried. She's not at all pretty, and at twenty-seven, she's quite the old maid that no one wants, or ever wanted. She's too tall and too skinny and her face is too long and remorseful, with a thin mouth that turns down and hair too coarse to be attractive. And so, without much to recommend her, men have steered clear of her, and he intends to do the same. Because, much worse then money or connections or beauty or lack of intelligence, she dislikes being out of doors, and she has such bad allergies that she avoids gardens and conservatories. He couldn't possibly be interested in anyone who didn't like gardens. He wishes old Harvey hadn't invited her, but the Harveys are close to the girl's grandfather, who occasionally presses for them to include Maud so she'll have some sort of social interaction. And possibly find a husband.

He shrugs and mutters, "If you wish."

"It doesn't much signify what _I_ wish, Colin."

"Yes, bcause you're returning to Boston in two weeks."

"No, because you are your own person, and I can't possibly make decisions for someone so decided in their own mind. I've never in my life met anyone as determined as you, Colin."

He hears the soft clicks of her heels as she moves away from him, to leave him alone. Impulsively, he turns and asks, "Will you let me know when she leaves?"

Cece glances over her shoulder, pauses, and then says maddeningly, "Perhaps."

He snarls, but she only smirks and walks out. And he wishes she had stayed, though he can't say why.


	37. Cindy, I'll Marry You Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece flirt in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Robert Plant, released in 2010.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Cindy, I'll Marry You Someday

****

They are cloistered in the library, at a small study table in a dark, hidden corner.

 _She_ secretly wonders how he can study in the dim light, and with the heavy rain drumming steadily against the thick windowpanes.

_He_ secretly wonders that she has nothing better to do with her afternoon then drop by to meet him here and distract him from his studies. Not that he minds, particularly – because the idea that she has sought him out on such a very purpose is exciting. He reminds himself not to get his hopes up.

"I _only_ stopped by to say hello," is the first thing she says when she locates him in this dark, hidden, chilly corner. "I was out shopping for new stationary and I happened to be passing by. I thought you might be here."

He keeps his voice sardonic. "I'm always here. But seriously – _stationary_? _Today_?"

It is pouring outside – typical British weather. He would have expected most girls to remain indoors on such a day, writing letters or reading sappy romance novels or practicing music or having tea before a warm fire. Wealthy society girls just don't play outside in the cold rain. Not even American girls. In fact, the only girl he knows of that _will_ venture out into this kind of downpour is Mary; he can well remember times during their early teens when she would sneak outside while it was raining, simply because she _had_ to see the garden growing. He was always positive she would catch a cold after she returned inside an hour later, soaking wet...while Dickon was positive she was the queerest lass he'd ever met (and didn't hesitate to say so, more than once).

"Mm, yes. I was completely out, and I simply must write some letters this afternoon. Mrs. Harvey's stationary is too girly for me." And with that, she seats herself across from him, without invitation but with a pretty smile.

There is a momentary silence, and then, _of course_ , they begin the usual, teasing debate that is typical of their conversations – though it is whispered, due to being in a library. It wouldn't do to disturb the other patrons.

She starts by berating him on remaining in Mr. Harvey's conservatory the other night, for the entire party, instead of socializing.

He attacks with asking her why she never came back to keep him company.

She loftily remarks that she was enjoying herself with the other guests, and that she isn't tied to him specifically.

He sourly tells her he needs to study, lest he make poor marks.

Her pretty lips curve up and she reminds him he could pass an examination blindfolded.

He wrinkles his nose at her in irritation.

Her eyes sparkle with silent laughter.

He starts making random guesses as he tries to keep writing an essay, desperate to get a reaction out of her.

"Caroline?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Concordia?"

"Just because I live in the state of Massachusetts does not mean my parents named me after local townships."

Thoughtfully, but without looking up, he muses, "We have the same initials, you know."

"Ah! Thank you for pointing that out. Because, you know, I'm so daft I never noticed it before."

He can't help smiling at her sarcasm. She attended a woman's college in the States and he knows she's quite intelligent – more so then most girls he knows of her age. But it doesn't stop him from teasing, or making guesses.

"Catherine?"

"You may as well give up. You'll never guess." She sounds highly amused.

"Cecilia?"

"I should be heading back. Mrs. Harvey will wonder if I'm out too long."

He grins mischievously at her. "No, no. I know – Clotilda!"

She looks nauseated. "What a revolting name. No, it's absolutely _not_ Clotilda. Goodbye, Colin."

"Celeste?"

"No." She rises gracefully and rearranges her cashmere coat, pulling her hair out from beneath the collar.

He pulls his notepad out again, and crosses through the names he has guessed today that are clearly wrong. "Camilla?"

She tugs one of her slim, snug leather gloves onto her hand again. "No, Colin."

He stands up and skirts the table to stand close to her. The scent of her perfume – a soft, pleasing, faint waft of lavender and crisp sea breeze – makes him light-headed and unable to think as clearly as before. "Chastity?" he murmurs.

"You are absolutely wicked." She smiles up at him, her dark cloche hat framing her pretty face and almost hiding it, almost making it secretive and mysterious. "But no, that's not it, either."

He leans closer. "I'll guess it right, someday."

"Well, you haven't even come close, yet." She tugs the other glove on.

"Constance?"

"I'm not a nun, Colin."

"No, definitely not." He grins.

"I simply must go. I told you – I only dropped by to say hello, and Mrs. Harvey –"

"Cassandra?"

"No." She punctuates the word with a smile and a tap to his chin. "Goodbye."

He glances quickly at his notepad. "Carnation?"

She bites back a giggle. "Interesting, but no."

"Clarice?"

"No. And how many times must I tell you goodbye?"

"If I keep guessing, you'll stay. Charity?"

"No, and I'm not feeling very charitable at the moment either. Goodbye, Colin."

She turns to leave, but he follows her.

"Colette?"

She shakes her head and keeps walking between the towering shelves.

"Cybil?"

His hands are itching to grasp her about the waist and turn her around. He wonders what it would be like to nuzzle his face into her neck and breath her scent in deeply.

"No."

"I'm almost out of 'C' names, Cece."

"Well, you haven't guessed mine yet, so there must be some more."

"Cassiopeia?"

She turns, startling him, coming face to face with him in the dark aisle. For a moment they hover, inches from each other. Colin rests an arm on one of the shelves so he is leaning over her. He bends slightly and inhales, becoming very nearly dizzy, and he is quite glad they are hidden from view of other patrons. They are too close for normal standards; anyone who happened upon them now would definitely think they were more then just friends.

"No," she whispers.

"Cynthia?"

She smiles slightly. "Hmm. Surprising. Closer."

Without thinking, he actually _leans closer_ , his arm slipping off of the bookshelf, his free hand falling tentatively towards her hip, brushing lightly against the soft wool of her coat. His feet shift and their bodies brush.

"I meant," she says, stuttering slightly and standing straighter, almost meeting him in the process, "You're closer to guessing my name. Not _lean closer_ , Colin!"

"Oh," he breathes. His hand rests, feather-light, on the fabric.

"I'll see you at dinner tomorrow night?" she whispers, tracing his chin with her gloved finger.

"Claudia?"

"No."

"Cecille?"

"Didn't you already guess that?"

"I guessed Cecilia earlier."

"Oh. Well, no. It's neither. I told you – you were closer when you guessed Cynthia."

"Clemency?"

"Tomorrow night. Dinner with the Harveys?"

He sighs. "Very well."

"I'll see you then." She smiles softly at him.

He only realizes he's standing like a dazed idiot when she's been gone two full minutes.


	38. Blue Eyes Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece gives Colin some surprising news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Eric Clapton, released in 1999.
> 
> This chapter was mainly a way for me to release a lot of random knowledge I have about turn-of-the-century ocean liners.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Blue Eyes Blue

****

He is utterly startled when Carlton admits her into the parlor, for her visit is unexpected and her appearance is utterly changed from the last he saw her, only the night before at the Harveys' dinner party where they hardly talked to anyone else for constantly talking to each other. She looks nothing like the vibrant, vivacious girl he's come to know. She looks distraught, pale, and upset instead. Her clothing is dark and drab – traveling clothing, he recognizes, with a thrill of horror and panic. But she wasn't supposed to leave for another week and a half! He thought he had that long to...

_To what?_

His mind blanks; he feels nothing but shock.

What, exactly, was he planning to do with such a short amount of time left to spend with her? What has he been doing since Dickon and Mary's wedding, other than being in her company as much as possible? What on earth has happened?

As soon as his butler bows out and shuts the door, he hurries to her and takes her hands, only to find them icy. He wonders why she didn't put her gloves on.

"You're freezing," he murmurs hurriedly, drawing her closer to the large fire. "What's happened? Cece, what's wrong?"

"My father," she whispers, her teeth chattering from cold. "He took ill, very suddenly. A stroke, they believe. Randolph telegrammed for me to return home immediately, because the doctors don't think he'll survive but a few more days and I must see that all of his affairs are in order. I told Mrs. Harvey that I simply had to come see you before I left, even if I saw no one else. I knew you'd wonder if I didn't... If I just left without saying goodbye... But I must leave at once, I... I have to go home..."

She trails off and squeezes her eyes shut; yet she does not cry. He feels momentarily helpless – as helpless as he did while Mary nursed Dickon back to health, as helpless as he did while his uncle monitored the cases of influenza around Thwaite, as helpless as he felt whenever he read casualty lists in the papers each day during the war. God, the war seems so long ago now; in only two months it will be 1920. And it is surprising how, for a man of action, there are times when he isn't certain what to do at all. Times when he feels lost, as lost as he did when he was a child in a dark room, determined that he would die from a hunched back. He struggles to pull himself out of his worst memories and back into the present.

He knows that her aging father is Cece's only family – the hours they have spent talking and laughing and telling secrets at various parties and dinners and outings are etched in his mind, almost more clearly then his best friends' wedding is. God, she's hardly spent time with anyone else in London since they met, for Mr. and Mrs. Harvey always approved of her standing up with him at various social events, believing he would be completely impartial and unlikely to be attracted to her due to his common sense. Because of all the young, single men in the upper social circle, Colin would understand that Cece had a serious beau back in the States. And so he stood up with her, first as a friend, and because he liked her sense of humor and her dry wit that matched his so well, and then with the slow sense of dawning as the weeks went by that he was attracted to her in ways he'd never been attracted to anyone else.

And so he also knows her mother passed away when she was a child and that she has no grandparents, aunts, or uncles. Her father is a business magistrate of a paper company in New England, and her future fiancée, a wealthy landowner whose grandfather made a fortune of owning railroads decades ago, are all she has left in the world. He swallows and steels himself, for the only thing he _can_ do is let her return to her home to her father's side. Because of Randolph, he cannot ask her to stay in England, though he wishes to heaven he could.

"Have you booked a passage home?" he asks, his mind clearing because if it doesn't, he'll drown or suffocate or _something_ desperate. For the first time since he was ten years old, he hates himself for thinking in such practical terms. He wishes he could hold her instead, and tell her everything would be all right. He can't even do that, though. It would be wrong, because of Randolph.

Mary would scold him, he thinks ruefully. She'd tell him to shove his common sense under a rug for a change, and to hell with Randolph. Worse, Dickon would look at him sympathetically and say absolutely nothing, because he wouldn't _have_ to. He can't even stand to see his two closest friends in his head right now, because he knows, deep down, that they're right. He should tell Randolph he's terribly sorry about everything and just ask Cece to...

God. To _what_ , exactly?

_Marry_ him?

His heart seems to stop. He's too young, isn't he? He's not even technically of age, yet. He's not even finished with university, yet. How can he even be certain he's...

He's what?

In... _love_...with her?

_Love_...?

Cece, unaware of his own internal struggles, looks up and nods at his question. "Yes. Mr. Harvey booked a first class cabin for me on the _Aquitania_."

He forces a small smile. "Ship beautiful," he murmurs, thinking of the popular Cunard liner's general nickname amongst the upper class. A nickname different from her sister, _Maury_.

Her own watery half-giggle makes him feel a fraction better.

"Mm. Ship beautiful," she sighs. "She's my favorite, you know. I came here on _Aquitania_. It is fitting I should leave on her, I suppose." Her shoulders drop slightly and her eyes are downcast.

He tries to sound positive by making a haughty remark. Anything to hide the war raging inside of him. "Her forward funnel is too close to the bridge. It makes her look unbalanced."

"Old arguments, Colin Craven. Didn't we have this discussion only a few days ago? Next you'll be saying she's got too many cowl ventilators, if I remember rightly."

"She _does_ have too many cowl ventilators! Far too many!" He pauses, and then shakes his head. "You are the only girl I know who can discuss cowl ventilators with me."

She laughs and leans her forehead against his chest, and he cannot help but snake his arms around her to hold her. Against him, she is soft but a bit stiff, thanks to the awkwardness of the situation. Yet he relishes it all the same with a twinge of wickedness that he probably shouldn't feel, considering her father is so ill and Randolph believes Colin's only being a gentleman in his absence. That brings him back to reality in a trice, and his brow furrows in thought.

"Why didn't Mr. Harvey book you on the _Olympic_? She's faster then _Aquitania_."

"She's inbound from New York right now, and so it will still be faster to go on the _Aquitania_. Otherwise, I would have taken _Olympic_ , simply for speed."

"And I know that you dislike White Star."

"I prefer Cunard, yes."

"I'll miss you."

The words come out soberly, almost longingly. He bites his tongue and looks towards the fire, wishing he hadn't admitted it. It was wrong of him to do so, the way he meant it.

But after a moment, he feels her hand against his cheek, the coolness making his skin jolt and shiver, sending little skating sparks down his body. She turns his head so she can meet his eyes, and she says quietly, "I'll miss you too, Colin. Immensely. You've been my closest friend during my stay here. I don't think I've spent nearly the same amount of time with anyone else, except the Harveys."

And before he can quite realize what is happening, she's pushed up and her lips brush his. Startled, he stands frozen, stocked at her boldness, his arms still around her though almost limp from surprise. It is only a light kiss, for only the briefest second, but his mouth actually tingles and he feels dizzy. As she steps back, he stares at her, hardly sensing the pressure as she squeezes his hand; hardly knowing anything except the enormity of the moment. Why would she have kissed him? In friendship? Because she cares more about him then she's let on? Because it's the last time he'll ever see her? As a parting gift? Or was it something more?

"I'll write to you once I return home," she promises, though he hardly hears her. " _Aquitania_ departs in an hour. Mr. Harvey's already sent my luggage on. Goodbye, Colin." And with that, she turns and walks to the door, glancing back once to gaze at him before slipping out into the hall.

By the time he's reached the front vestibule and thrown the front door open, having skidded across the expensive rugs and the polished hardwood like a blasted ten year old running across the moor, the cab is gone. He is a fraction too late, having been too stunned to react quicker. In frustration and despair, he closes his eyes and leans his arm against the frame. His head thunks against the wood a couple of times and he returns back inside only when he realizes he's letting the cold air into the house. Utterly dejected at having missed whatever chance he had, he tells his butler to leave him alone for the rest of the day.

It seems ages, he thinks later in the afternoon (after sitting in front of the fire like a dead man for hours, replaying the scene in his head over and over and over, and thinking of every possible scenario as to _why_ she kissed him), since he was last on the moor. And the moor in late autumn seems as though it would fit his mood exactly right.

Perhaps his professors would grant him a week's absence. And even if they don't, perhaps he'll take it anyways.


	39. This Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin has a discussion with Dickon about romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Faith Hill, released in 1998.
> 
> ~BD

****

## This Kiss

****

It is mid-morning the next day when he arrives at Misselthwaite, much to the surprise of the staff, and he finds himself playing the rajah in order to hide the real emotions that simmer and boil beneath the surface. Because it won't do for the maids and menservants to guess that something is wrong with their young master, and whisper about him in the servants' quarters.

After haughtily tossing his overcoat into an antique chair in the entrance hall, and cooly informing Medlock that he will see his father directly, he goes to his old chambers and changes clothes, sighing in relief at the comfortable feeling of casual slacks and a worn flannel shirt. Clothes that he can wear when he is here, and only when he is here, because one cannot run across the moor or tend to a garden in tailored suits. It makes him feel like _Colin_ , instead of a university student with investment demands and social engagements. It clears his head, some.

Fifteen minutes later, he discovers that his father is feeling a bit under the weather, having caught a minor cold typical of the season. To keep the man from worrying any more than is necessary, Colin answers evasively when asked why he is home in the middle of term, and insists he'll only be at Misselthwaite for a couple of days to visit with everyone, before heading back to his responsibilites in London. His father seems pleased with this response and doesn't press further.

He then learns that his cousin is in the yellow parlor today, answering some of her uncle's post because of his cold. This news is most welcome, because it means she's not out in the grounds with her husband, but that she _is_ at the manor instead of her own home, so he'll be able to see her later without having to walk a mile out onto the moor.

And so Colin smoothly tells his father he'll see him at dinner, and he leaves Archibald Craven settling down for a nap.

He has thought it all out in his head on the journey here, and he has decided that he doesn't want to face Mary just yet. He isn't exactly certain he could explain it to her, anyways. Mary is governed by emotions in matters such as these, and he needs someone with a clear line of thought. That was his purpose for coming here, after all.

So he wanders into the vast park, taking familiar paths through familiar gardens, until he finds one of the under gardeners and obtains Dickon's whereabouts.

Dickon, it transpires, is alone in the second vegetable garden, planting carrots. At Colin's footsteps, he rises and turns, but the look on his face clearly indicates that he is surprised to see his friend.

Colin hesitates, before saying in a faltering voice, "The gardens look good. You've changed the rows about, I see."

Dickon looks around him at the long rows of dirt. "Aye," he stammers. "I s'ppose they look well e'now. Always helps t' change them a bit now an' then." He glances back at Colin, confused. "I donna understand, though. Why is tha...?"

"Only for a couple of days." Colin sighs and gestures towards the door that leads back towards the outer gardens. "Will you walk with me?" he asks quietly.

Dickon nods, his expression still uncertain. "Aye, if tha wishes."

He pushes off of his shovel and shoulders it, and together, they walk back through the vegetable gardens and around to the ivy walk. Colin waits until they are past the secret garden and nearly into the wooded area beyond before speaking again, for he does not want anyone else to overhear. Especially the under gardeners.

Once they are past the fringe of trees, he takes a deep breath and starts, "May I ask you... something personal?"

Dickon nods again, his expression serious and worried. "O' course tha can. I'll answer if I'm able."

"The first time you... kissed a girl." He swallows, afraid to meet Dickon's eyes, because he has sensed the startled shift in his friend's stance at such an odd question. He hurries on, slightly embarrassed. "What did you feel?"

The silence that follows is thick and heavy. For a moment, he fears he won't get an answer at all. His face is burning despite the cold autumn breeze, and he resolutely keeps his eyes fixed upon a clump of bushes a few feet away. It really must seem stupid to waste money on a train ticket home just to ask a question about _kissing_.

But then Dickon says, "I didn' feel anything, t' tell thee th' truth."

Surprised, Colin looks up. " _Nothing_? But..."

Dickon smiles at him. "Nothing." And, seeing Colin's confusion, he elaborates, "Th' first girl I kissed was a local village girl, Colin. Back when I were... Eh, but it's been years! I mun 'ave been about fifteen at th' time. It was at a harvest dance." He pushes his cap back and scratches his head thoughtfully before laughing. "Eh, I didn' feel anything! I remember thinkin' how odd it was, that if there were no more t' kissin' then just puttin' lips together I shouldn' care about it one way o' a'other. I couldn' see what all th' fuss was about at all, an' th' girl I'd kissed seemed so excited about it. So after I'd mulled it o'er in my head a bit, I asked my father if I were missin' something, if I were doin' it wrong, perhaps. He laughed at me an' told me I was right normal and that, until I kissed th' right girl, there wouldn' be nothin' _to_ feel, so I needn' get t' worryin' about it an' I should jus' let nature take 'er course. Mother, she thought it was right amusin' herself when I told her. An' I did too, after talkin' with them. I kissed several girls as I got a bit older, but I never felt nothin' with any o' 'em. I always used t' wonder what it would be like t' kiss Mary, back then. If it'd be different."

"So... What _do_ you feel when you kiss Mary?"

"Eh, I canna explain in words, I don' think." The smile fades and Dickon frowns slightly. "But even if I could, does tha really wish t' know? Tha wouldn' be embarrassed for me t' tell thee something like that?"

"A little. But I wouldn't ask if..." He trails off, confused and depressed again. "I need to know, Dickon. And you're the only one I can trust to... to tell me the truth without laughing at me," he states flatly. "I'm perfectly aware that it must seem strange I should come all the way back to Yorkshire just to ask something like this, but it is important."

Dickon tilts his head, but his tone is anything but teasing. "Tha left thy schoolin' over a kiss, did tha? Eh, it's not worth that, Colin, is it? Tha schoolin's too important. We're all so proud o' thee, makin' it so far."

"Would you just answer the question, please?" Colin sighes and rakes his hands through his hair. "I'm aware that my studies are important. More then ever, really."

Dickon shrugs. "Verra well, then. When I kiss Mary, everything _changes_. Th' first time, I understood exactly what my father meant years ago. It's jus' me an' her, an' nothin' else in the world. Feels as though I were hit by lightening an' thunder, an' somethin' inside me feels as though it would burst if I keep on, and shatter me into a million pieces. An' yet I don' want t' stop, because if I'm goin' to die anyways, I want to die kissin' Mary. It makes all th' other kisses I ever had seem like they never even happened. I hardly remember 'em at all."

Colin's eyes settling unseeingly upon the bushes again, and he murmurs, "Lightening?"

"Has tha never kissed a girl before?" Dickon asks curiously.

"No." Embarrassed that he's almost nineteen and has never had a kiss until the day before, he adds, "I didn't want to kiss the wrong one, you see. I know this may sound horrid, but... Well, many girls in London society are interested in me, because of my money and father's title and everything that goes with all of that. So I tend to be... aloof, I suppose."

Dickon nods. "As tha should be. Tha wouldn' want t' give a girl th' wrong idea if tha wasn' interested in her. So mayn' I ask who tha kissed, then? Seein' as tha's so careful."

"I didn't." His throat feels dry. "I didn't kiss her. She kissed _me_."

Dickon's eyebrows lift slightly. "Ah. An' did tha want her t' kiss thee?"

"Well... yes, actually!" Colin's face reddens even more. "But... But it's complicated! Much more complicated then that!"

"An' so what did tha do when she kissed thee?"

"I stood there like a bloody idiot, trying to analyze what was happening, and by the time I figured it out, she was gone, and –!"

Dickon cracks a grin and cuts him off, his speech broader then ever in his amusement. "If that ain' jus' like thee! Th' girl tha likes th' best kisses thee, an' tha stands 'round like an idiot when tha could 'ave been kissin' 'er back! Th' lightenin' isn' so bad, tha knows! It feels rather good once tha gets used t' it!"

Closing his eyes, Colin mutters, "Please don't joke, Dickon. God! How I wish I had Mary's ability to throw everything to the wind and say the hell with it, and do whatever I want! I admire her for that! But sometimes it's not that easy for me! And it certainly isn't that easy this time! There are so many factors involved!"

"Tha's always done what thy wants. Don' know why this time should be different. Tha's a rajah and always will be. Tha can do whatever tha wishes, an' have whatever tha wants, but tha tempers it with reason, thanks t' th' garden changin' thee a bit."

"But this is the one thing I _can't_ have." He sits down heavily on a log and presses his face to his knees. "You don't understand."

"Help me t' understand, then. Why can't tha fall in love?"

Colin shakes his head. "It isn't that I can't fall in love, it's that... this girl is engaged. Or as good as. I shouldn't fall in love with an engaged girl. That's wrong."

Dickon sits down beside him, and after a moment, he says thoughtfully, "If she's engaged, or as good as... Then... Why would she kiss thee instead o' her beau?"

"I've been asking myself that question for the last twenty-four hours, I assure you."

"Felt like lightenin', did it?"

He lapses briefly into Yorkshire himself. "Aye, it did. Felt as though I couldn' move, because my heart mightn' burst out o' my chest if I did."

"Can tha imagine being with anyone else?"

Colin shakes his head miserably. "No, and that's the worst of it. What's happened to me? I'm stronger then this, or so I thought! I should be able to imagine myself with anyone, but whenever I try... _She_ comes to the surface first. She's laughing at me in my head, taunting me to try and think of what it would be like to kiss anyone else, because I can't _imagine_ kissing anyone else. I've been wanting to kiss her almost since the night I met her. I think that's the first time I've admitted it, even to myself," he adds hopelessly. "What's happening to me?"

Dickon laughs softly. "Eh, but it's not a question of strength or weakness. Not at all! Tha's got it all mixed up, hasn' tha? It's simple, tha knows. It's both strength _and_ weakness. Th' right girl will make thee feel as though tha could do anything in th' world – until she looks at thee with that one look she's got only for thee, an' then tha feels utterly helpless. It's a combination o' th' two, see? I hate it," he adds, almost ruefully. "Mary looks at me that way sometimes, an' I feel as though I can' even move my own legs without me knees bucklin' under an' fallin' at her feet."

"But the problem is... Cece's... American." He sighs and looks at his friend. "Not that being American is the problem, exactly. Oh, hell. I should start at the beginning, shouldn't I? I met her shortly after you and Mary wed. She was staying with some of her father's friends, the Harveys, for the season, while her father and her beau sorted out some business concerns in the States. And the Harveys happen to be our mutual acquaintance, seeing as I've invested in a few of Mr. Harvey's business ventures. We met at a party one evening, only a few days after your wedding." He flushes with slight embarrassment. "I was a little... drunk that night, actually."

Dickon's smile reaches his eyes. "Thee? Drunk? Eh, I canna imagine it. Tha's got too much sense for that."

"Yes, I thought I did, too." He shakes his head. "I never will again; the day after was bloody awful. But I was being stupid that night. I felt... left out. I felt as though I'd lost you and Mary both, and all I wanted to do was to forget for a few hours."

The smile disappears instantly, and Dickon looks stricken. "Ah, Colin... Nowt o' th' soart! Tha would never lose either o' us! Tha's like a brother t' me, as good as a real brother, and Mary thinks o' thee th' same!"

"I know." Colin smiles sadly. "But knowing and feeling are two very different things. And for that moment, I kept thinking of the two of you, happy and in love, and the server kept coming 'round with champagne, and I kept drinking it and mulling over being alone. Cece found me and took pity on me. Mr. Harvey had told her I would be good company, seeing as she was eighteen and had a beau across the pond, and she liked me even though I was utterly smashed when she stumbled across me. Old Harvey'd told her I had too much common sense to fall in love with her, and so if she needed an escort, I would be perfect for the role. So what did I do? Over the next two months, I played her escort to keep her safe, and I fell in love with her anyways, and now she's gone, and I never told her how I really felt!"

"Gone?"

"She was slated to leave in a week and a half anyways, but yesterday she stopped by all in a rush. Her father had taken ill and her future fiancé had telegrammed her to return immediately in case the worst happened. I certainly can't go after her and tell a thirty-two year old businessman that I want to take his bird away from him! He's established in the world, and I –"

Dickon cuts him off, suddenly severe. "You," he says sharply, "Are an intelligent man, though you are young. An' in another two months tha'll have a university education. Tha makes good investments and tha's managed tha money quite well, even durin' th' war. Not many can say that, Colin. Tha's unorthodox in some ways, but it works for thee, an' while other young, wealthy men squander their money an' don't think about th' future, tha isn' like that. Tha has everything t' offer a woman of society, even an American woman. Tha's a townhouse, a country home, servants, bank accounts, everything. Despite tha age, tha _is_ established. Tha'll be a lord one day, when tha father dies."

"Yes, one day! But I'm not even nineteen yet! She must see that I'm too young –"

"If she's eighteen, then tha's close in age. Closer than thirty-two, as her beau is."

"But –!"

Dickon smiles and stands up. "But! – _she kissed thee_ – an' unless I'm much mistaken, I'll warrant she'll come back t' thee. Why else would she 'ave kissed thee? She knows all that I jus' said. She can see tha'd be a good husband, and she likes thee, apparently."

"But I can't see why she would come back. Randolph," the word comes out bitter and ugly, "owns railroads, and –"

Dickon actually laughs at this excuse, hard and loud. " _Railroads_? _That's_ what tha's worried about? Good God, but I hope I wasn't as silly an' blinded as tha is, when I was wonderin' if Mary loved me!"

Colin rises angrily to his feet and glares. "Yes, you were, as a matter of fact!"

Dickon is unperturbed by the expression, and merely keeps laughing, his eyes sparkling more then ever, it seems. "Then stop acting so silly thysel'!. Tha could go after her, tha knows! Tha owns shares in liners, s' what's th' difference? Liners... Railroads... Both means o' travel, after all!"

Annoyed, Colin snaps, "I can't go after her, that's the whole point! I've got school. And I'll be heading back tomorrow morning before I miss any more lectures or classes. I've been lucky to stay a year ahead and exceed the expectations of my professors, and I _will_ graduate in December!"

Dickon shakes his head. "I always wanted thee to graduate, especially early. But as far as love goes, tha's hopeless, I think. It was easier getting thee out o' thy room an' into th' garden ten year ago. Ah, well. Come on, then. Tha needs a good meal an' a good night's sleep, an' then maybe tha'll feel better an' be able t' think more clearly."

"Maybe." He sighs. "But I doubt it. Will you and Mary stay for dinner?"

"Aye, if tha wishes."

"I'd like that. But please, don't tell her why I really came home. Can this remain between us? She wouldn't understand, yet. It's bad enough I've had to admit it to anyone, even you."

"Verra well, I won' tell her, if that doesn' want me to."

"Thank you."

Dickon smiles. "Tha's always welcome. But tha'd best come up with another excuse, for tha knows Mary won' stop questionin' thee until she gets what she thinks is th' truth out o' thee."

Colin groans. "God. Don't remind me. All right, then. I came home because I had a break in classes and I wanted to see both of you, and father. I think I can make that sound truthful."

"And I'll go get washed up; I'm filthy t' th' skin from workin' t'day. Too filthy t' eat in th' manor, leastways."

"While you do that, I'll go find Mary. She'll be furious that I didn't go to her straight away."

They part company in the water garden - Dickon, heading for the servants' quarters, and Colin, heading for the manor. And as he mounts the steps to enter the house, he finds that it feels as though a weight has lifted off of him. Not a large one, for he is still worried. But talking with Dickon helped somehow, he thinks.


	40. Shades of Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 1919, in which Colin is moody and depressed, Mary and Dickon keep him somewhat sane, and he finally receives a telegram that propels him to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1967.
> 
> My thanks to Estella on FFN, for correcting me on a quite embarrassing mistake I'd made in this chapter and a couple of others! I won't even say what it was, simply because I'm horrified I made such a glaring error. It has long since been corrected, but I am still indebted to her.
> 
> This chapter was mostly a way to explore how Colin's childhood moodiness affects him as an adult.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Shades of Gray

****

Mary and Dickon are waiting at Thwaite station when the train arrives, and as Colin steps onto the platform, they wave and rush to hug him, and he feels as though a weight lifts slightly from off of his chest. He briefly forgets his heartache as the train pulls away, and at once sets about helping Dickon to load what little luggage he hasn't sent ahead into a sleigh. And as soon as they are all snuggly settled beneath the blankets, Dickon snaps the reins and the two hefty horses tug forward into the thick snow that covers the dales.

The cold air feels delicious against his face after the stuffiness of the train compartment, and clears his head somewhat. But before he can say anything, Dickon and Mary eagerly congratulate him on his diploma. He promises to show it to them once they reach Misselthwaite, which immediately leads to a discussion about Christmas and what Cook is preparing for dinner. Fortunately, there isn't any time during the sleigh ride for him to fall into silent reflection and wishful thinking. Probably best, because otherwise he'll just grow moody.

When they arrive at Misselthwaite, he greets his father and Mrs. Medlock as cheerfully as he can manage, and Dickon helps him take his things to his room. He doesn't realize that Dickon is taking the opportunity to watch him carefully, to see if there is any change in his friend. To see if Colin is still depressed and pining after a girl he thinks he's lost. And even an hour later, while they eat dinner, he still doesn't notice Dickon's quiet gaze – because he's so lost in himself.

He is briefly startled by Mary's random question in the middle of dessert on whether he is courting anyone or not, but he answers negatively and she nods to show that she understood his response. Dickon quickly changes the subject (to Colin's relief), and afterwards they retire to the parlor to decorate a fir tree that Dickon hauled in the day before.

It is only late in the evening, after they have bid each other goodnight and he finds himself alone in his old chambers undressing for bed, that he allows himself to finally think of Cece again. And even then, he doesn't get the chance to _truly_ dwell on her, for he realizes that Mary and Dickon have placed a small tree in the room just for him, decorated with popcorn strings and red bows, and that his mantel bears a twisted garland of holly and ivy (most likely taken from the walk outside the garden) below his mother's beautiful portrait. His last thought as he drifts to sleep isn't about the despair he feels at having lost the girl he's fallen in love with, but at how lucky he is to have such dear friends – friends as close as family members, for Mary is like a sister and Dickon is like a brother – and how glad his mother would be to see them together, even as young adults.

However, the following days unconsciously prove that he is actually, in all reality, far too preoccupied (though he won't dare admit it) with Cece. He lies to himself by pretending not to think of her, but she seems to creep into his thoughts without any sort of warning. Dickon and Mary keep him busy, thank God, and that at least makes him think of other things a bit: He plays chess with Mary and discusses books and studies with Dickon; they sit around the fire or take sleigh rides together. Dickon walks him about the manor's gardens so that he may approve of the winter beds, and they visit Mrs. Sowerby one afternoon for oatcakes and warm milk. But Cece still hovers on the edges of his mind, creating a nagging worry that makes him nervous and almost sick to his stomach, as he wonders how she is holding up under the strain of managing her father's affairs during his illness.

He finally tells Dickon (privately) that he has, in fact, heard from Cece twice since she departed – the first time, she wrote to tell him that she had arrived safely in America and that Mr. and Mrs. Harvey had joined her a few days later to help as much as possible. She was exceedingly occupied, as her father's health was very poor, but insisted she would write again very soon. The second letter was lengthier, to his partial relief. She told him how troubled she was about the possibility of losing her father, because she is so young and it would leave her completely alone, and how Mr. Harvey was assisting her with her father's business affairs where he can. Then she congratulated Colin on his graduation and reminisced about some of their time together.

He miserably admits to Dickon that it is all he can do to stop himself from boarding a liner and traveling directly to Boston, but that he has no desire for a confrontation with Randolph, and that the Harveys would be incredibly stunned to see him and shocked to learn that he fell in love with their charge. And besides, he doesn't want to upset Cece with a random appearance when she is so busy nursing the only family member she has left to her, or else handling business matters for her father's estate. So he has decided that he will wait until her father is in better health or until the man's death, before he acts further.

To his surprise, Dickon doesn't really voice an opinion about the matter, but seems contemplative instead, as though trying to sort it out in his head. He assumes that, once Dickon knows what he wants to say, he'll say it. The trouble is, he could do with a bit of Dickon's advice and he hates waiting for it.

Christmas Day dawns gray and peaceful; Mary and Dickon come to the manor and there are presents to be opened, a feast to enjoy, Christmas carols on the phonograph, a blazing fire in the hearth, chestnuts to be roasted, and a host of treats to eat later in the evening with hot chocolate. He wonders, only a few times, how Cece is spending Christmas – if she's cooped up in her father's room, sitting dolefully beside his deathbed, or if Randolph took her to church for the morning, or if she is visiting with friends. And he finds himself daydreaming only once or twice what _he_ would do if it were _him_ instead of _Randolph_ – how _they_ would spend Christmas together.

He stops himself from wishing it after the second time, because it's just silly to imagine things he can't have.

Boxing Day proves rather dull after the festivities of the day before, and for no other reason then to escape the large, empty manor, Colin sets out on foot to Mary and Dickon's home. As he trudges through the deep drifts of snow, he can't help but enjoy the sharp, cold air and the way the moor is silent and still and pristine, for no one else is up this early and the moor is always a world apart from everything else in existence. But the atmosphere allows his mind wander freely, and he finds that he wishes, desperately, that he could show Cece his haunts. The rise and fall of the dales; the winter and the spring and the summer and the autumn (for each season reveals something uniquely different and special to those who know how to look carefully). The hidden streams that cut through the scrubby hills, the dipping hollows that seem almost otherworldly. The grazing sheep and the baby lambs, all the gardens at Misselthwaite, the wide sweeping park and the woods. Secretive and mysterious groves that he and Dickon and Mary played in as children, creating fairy worlds when they weren't in the secret garden.

By the time he reaches his destination, he is sullen and mulish and determined to play a servant for the day to keep his mind in check – to stop thinking about things that likely won't ever happen. However, when Colin announces his intentions to the occupants of the modest home, Dickon rolls his eyes and Mary shakes her head.

A few minutes later, after Colin has warmed up by the fire, he and Dickon engage in a good-natured argument over who will chop firewood. And, in the end, they both head outside, shoving lightly at each other in a battle of wills.

(Dickon insists he can chop his own firewood, and Colin eventually _demands_ that he be allowed to chop it, simply to give him something to do).

The following week is even duller then Boxing Day – only conversations with Dickon seem to keep Colin sane, or from wandering off through the dark, cold manor in broody silence. The most interesting of these is the discovery that Dickon's ribs have become something of a weather indicator, which Colin finds absolutely fascinating, especially when Dickon insists they'll have more snow before the New Year. He claims he knows this only because his ribs ache terribly where they were shattered over a year ago, and because his arm tingles unpleasantly where it broke, as well. This leads to a discussion of war injuries, which goes on for a good while before Colin makes the off-hand comment that perhaps he should break a bone in order to be able to tell when the weather will change, effectively earning him a sharp tongue-lashing from Dickon, who informs him that no one should wish for something so blatantly idiotic, and even going so far as to add that maybe Colin really didn't earn the bloody university degree he brought home.

He's probably right, Colin thinks later (after they've had a good snow fight to end the argument).

New Year's Eve is quiet but reflective – sitting around a fire in the parlor, after Lord Craven has gone to bed, Colin, Dickon, and Mary talk about the past year and the many changes that have taken place since the end of the war. It is amazing how much has happened: Dickon has healed and has started to slowly take over Roach's duties, he and Mary are married, Colin has graduated, Europe is slowly healing, the economy seems to be getting better, investments are more promising, liners are re-entering service on the Atlantic routes they plied before the war, fashions are changing, music is changing, motion pictures are becoming more popular then ever.

They also talk a bit about the future. Colin is curious (and yet, at the same time, he's _not_ ) to know if his two best mates intend to start a family any time soon. Mary and Dickon both flush at the idea and don't really give him a straight answer. Just as well, he thinks later, because he isn't certain he wants them to start a family just yet. Once they have children, he wonders if he will feel even more of an outsider then he does already.

Of course, they are curious as to what Colin will do next, as well. He shrugs and, after a long moment of staring into the low-burning fire, he says that he figures he'll stay at Misselthwaite for a while, claiming he needs a break from London and all of the parties and soirees. To his surprise, Mary remarks that perhaps the moor will do him good, especially since he's been away from it for so long.

And so the next week drags by. He goes to London only once, to attend an important dinner party at the Willinghams, but he discovers that he finds the evening is immensely tedious, primarily because Cece isn't there to joke with him about the other guests, and the girls who do attend and flirt with him are vapid and irritating and have absolutely no sense. He ends up taking the train immediately back to Yorkshire that very night, arriving the next morning, and later in the afternoon he mentions the annoying society girls to Mary in a fit of aggravation, claiming that he isn't remotely interested in _any_ of them.

"Oh, really, Colin. Society girls won't do for you," she says, her tone both bemused and sensible. "You need someone to match your intellect and wit. Someone who went to university, I should say. After all, a girl who has only been brought up to run a household, without any sort of learning beyond the surface of finishing school, will be far too shallow for you. Just take care that you select someone with a good temper," she adds with a laugh, "and who will get along with _me_ well enough! I'd never forgive you if you married a sour sort of girl, like I was when I was little!"

He stares at her for a long time after the remark, because her description of his ideal girl fits Cece so well. Surely she knows nothing of Cece, though. Dickon promised he wouldn't say a word to Mary, so it must have been a coincidence that her remark was what it was. Then he wonders what his cousin would think of the girl from Boston. Would they get along? Would they be friends? Cece would be more understanding of Mary's decision to marry Dickon then an English society girl would. Or at least, she had always seemed to be.

It is during the third week of January, just when he thinks he might start to go crazy, that everything changes – that he receives a telegram stamped from Boston.

Only, it isn't from Cece.

It's from Oscar Harvey – and he wants Colin to join him and his wife in Boston, because he thinks it would be beneficial to Cece's health if Colin were there to help with some of the business papers and accounts, given Colin's expertise on such matters despite his young age.

As he stares at the piece of paper, he wonders briefly why Mr. Harvey isn't asking for Randolph's help. Why would he telegram all the way back to England to ask for _Colin's_ help? Despite the fact that Colin invests with Mr. Harvey, Randolph would certainly have more business experience then a just-turned-nineteen-year-old out of university, who isn't even technically of age yet.

But then again, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe this is what he was waiting for, to finally _act_. As though in a fog, he makes his way to his chambers to start packing a trunk, and quietly contacts Southampton to book passage on the next available liner leaving for New York.


	41. All That Love's About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Cece's life in Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Disney's "Wall-e".
> 
> By sheer accident, I overwrote this chapter shortly after I originally finished it. It makes me sick when I do that, because I have a nasty habit of deleting chapters off my hard drive as soon as I post them. And I can never re-write a chapter the same as it was. So sadly, this is a shadow of the former chapter, but you will at least get the idea I wanted to convey - that Cece sees Randolph for the cunning, calculating, manipulative person he is, and realizes she doesn't love him.
> 
> Also, you get to learn part of Cece's real name.
> 
> ~BD

****

## All That Love's About

****

She closes her eyes and sighs imperceptibly. It is incredibly difficult to continue the current conversation without losing her poise or her temper. The pile of paperwork on the secretariat is quite overwhelming; she was stunned that her father had so many accounts and ledgers when she first began the process of sorting his estate. She must get through them as quickly and accurately as possible, because he could pass away any day now, and they must be in order.

Except...

She _can't_ sort through them quickly, because _he's_ always stopping by. Supposedly to see how she is doing. And if she asks him to leave, he'll just bring up the old argument of...

"...don't see why you don't just let me handle it, Lu! I deal with legal matters all of the time, after all! I'm best suited for it!"

Cece opens her eyes and frowns at him as he pours himself a whiskey from a decanter on one of the side tables. "I'm father's executor," she says bluntly. "I need to handle them, because I need to be familiar with his accounts."

"In that respect, I need to be familiar with them, too. After all, I'm very nearly his business partner, and –"

She tenses and frowns. " _Very nearly_ isn't the same as _being_ a business partner. And you most certainly aren't his executor. I am. So _I_ will handle the paperwork –!"

"Oh, honestly!" He looks annoyed – an expression he seems to be wearing a lot lately. An expression that hides something much worse, she's noticed. "You're wearing yourself out, Lu! Going through all of his business ledgers and accounts and bankbooks yourself? If you would just sign the power of attorney over to me, then you wouldn't have to worry about it! I don't see why you don't! Then you'd be free to –"

" _No_ , Randolph." She sighs heavily, wishing she could fully explain _why_ she can't sign over the power of attorney. The trouble is, he wouldn't understand even _if_ she explained it. If he understood, he wouldn't be _Randolph_.

He throws back the rest of the whiskey and slams the glass down on a small table. "Now, _really_! You're just being stubborn! I'm your fiancée! I should be the one handling everything _for_ you, so you can rest and tend to your father! That's all I want to do, Lucinda! I just want to help! People will start to talk otherwise!"

She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and says shortly, "You aren't my fiancée yet, and I am still father's executor according to the legal paperwork, regardless of anything else."

This is a dangerous move and she knows it; however, to her consternation, he takes it just as he's been taking everything else: as though it's a good joke.

"Formalities," he says, smiling pleasantly at her. A pleasant smile that chills her, because it's entirely fake. She wonders how she never noticed, before. "Your father always wanted us to marry! It's only a matter of time. Which leads me to another point. If you sign over the power of attorney, then it would allow you more time to plan the wedding for this spring."

She feels nauseated at the very thought – the thought of marrying a man who would strip her of her powers by stealing the power of attorney from her. Without thinking, she says, " _No_."

Instantly, his personality changes to the one she'd never noticed until recently. Until her return to Boston.

"Damn it, Lu!" he snarls. "What's come over you, lately? It's like I don't even know you anymore!"

"What's come _over me_?" she repeats, her temper rising quickly to the surface, despite her desire to keep it in check. "My father lies upstairs, ready to die any day now, and you want to know what's come _over_ me?"

"That isn't what I mean!" he argues hotly. "It's something else! Something happened to you in England, Lu! You're acting entirely differently around me now! All secretive and distrusting! You've been this way ever since you returned from London!"

Immediately, her face becomes passive and blank. She doesn't want to think about England, about what she left in London. Every time she thinks about what she left behind in London, she wonders that she doesn't start to cry.

"Why do you call me that?" she demands abruptly, moving around the sofa to put some distance between them. It's time they changed the conversation.

He looks momentarily confused. "Call you what?"

"Why do you call me 'Lu'?"

"I've always called you 'Lu'!"

"I know, and I hate it! I always have! All this nonsense about my parents naming me after a stuffy aunt, just because she _wished_ it! It's as though I don't even have my own identity! _Lucinda_ is an absolutely horrid name; so ridiculously old-fashioned and fussy! I wish you would just call me 'Cece' like everyone else, or 'Cindy' like my father does!"

He bristles. "But I thought you hated 'Cece'!"

"When it first started, years ago, it annoyed me, yes," she consents. "But now, I'm used to it, and I like it a lot better then 'Lu'!"

"I've been calling you 'Lu' since the day I met you, and I'm not about to change it now," he retorts coldly. "So you'd just best get used to it."

It takes all she has not to scream in frustration. He doesn't understand her at all, and he's not even making an effort to _try_ and understand. When she was a young teenager, she never noticed how controlling and domineering he is. Back then, she always thought he was doting and charming; a slightly older young man in his late twenties at the time; a kind man who brought her pretty gifts and always asked her how her lessons and social events were going. She adored Randolph when she'd been younger, because he seemed quite attentive, and she knew he was intelligent and talented at investing his money. But even then he was controlling; reflecting on the past, she can see how he always told her what to do or where they were going or what she should wear, and she did everything he asked because she was blind to his real personality. Everything had to be his way, or not at all. Back then she never noticed how he always treated her as a child – not strictly because of her age, but mostly because of her gender. She notices now, because he still treats her as a child. As though she doesn't even have a mind of her own and can't possibly decide things for herself. Helpless and innocent and needy. As though her education at Wellesley means absolutely nothing to him. She's just a pretty plaything; a china doll he can dress up and hang on his arm for social functions, to make him look better before his colleagues and peers. He only cares about status and wealth, and as time goes on, these things mean more and more to him. She wonders how her father didn't see all of that; her father, who was always so progressive when it came to women's rights.

Angrily, she says, "Perhaps you'd best leave. I have quite a lot of work to do, and –"

"And you've been doing that to me a lot lately, too!" he argues. "Throwing me out of the house! Why don't you want me to help you?"

"I'm not throwing you out! I just have so much work to do, and I'm not signing anything over, so until I can finish the accounts –"

He cuts her off again, his face becoming smooth and pleasant. "Enough. You're tired, Lu. I can tell. You need to rest. I'll stop by tomorrow and see how you're feeling then." And before she can protest, he turns to the wide, arched doorway leading back into the foyer. "Jamison?" he calls out.

A couple of seconds later, the butler appears. Cece wonders if he's been standing in the hall the entire while. Not that she minds, of course. Jamison has been her father's butler since she was a small child, and she adores him. She trusts him more then anyone else in the world, for he has been like a second father, or an uncle to her, in many ways.

"Yes, sir?" he asks formally.

"I can see myself out," Randolph says with fake politeness. "But please make certain that Lucinda gets her rest this afternoon. She's completely worn out and isn't herself in the least." He flashes her a smile – a cold smile that leaves her feeling numb and panicked.

It is as though they are playing Russian roulette, and it terrifies her.

A few moments later, the front door closes behind him, and Cece exhales and closes her eyes. She has no idea how to handle the situation; how to tell Randolph why she won't sign over the power of attorney and, furthermore, that she doesn't love him and doesn't want to marry him. It seems quite hopeless, really.

She can feel Jamison watching her, and after a bit, she says shortly, "The only reason I'm worn out is because he keeps dropping by. I can't even sort through father's accounts...!"

"I know, Miss Cindy." Jamison's voice is kind and understanding, sympathetic and gentle.

She opens her eyes and dolefully meets his. "Would you bring me a cup of tea, please? I need to try and get as much done tonight as possible, before he shows up again tomorrow."

The butler smiles. "Of course, Miss." He turns to leave, but then stops and turns back to face her. "Oh! I almost forgot, Miss. You received a letter today. I haven't had a chance to give it to you, yet." He pauses, then adds shrewdly, "Or, rather, I had a feeling that if I gave it to you while Mr. Garrett was here, he mightn't start reading your mail, next." He reaches into his vest pocket and withdraws a letter, and hands it to his mistress.

Her heart leaps as she takes the envelope; the familiar handwriting makes her slightly giddy and briefly happy. God, how she misses what she left behind in London!

Jamison notices the change in her expression, for he adds, "You know, Miss Cindy, every time you get a letter from this address, you get so excited. If I didn't know better, I'd say the handwriting belonged to a man."

She blushes and glances up at him. "Oh! He's just a good friend, that's all."

"So it is a man," Jamison muses, his eyes twinkling at her.

She can't help it; she laughs and takes his hands. "Oh, Jamison! Perhaps once things settle down, I will tell you all about him."

He smiles. "I'm go bring in some tea."

But as he starts down the hall again, he stops a second time and turns to face her, his expression thoughtful. "Miss Cindy, may I speak my mind about something?"

"Of course," she answers sincerely. She values his opinion greatly; Jamison has had no formal education, but is intelligent in his own way.

"Mr. Garrett seems mighty concerned about that power of attorney." He pauses. "I don't want you to sign it over, Miss."

Cece sobers as his words sink in. So she isn't the only person who has noticed what Randolph really is. It makes her feel much better, and at the same time, much worse.

"No, Jamison," she murmurs. "I don't intend to sign it over."

He nods, and disappears down the hall.

She remains standing in the entry for at least a minute, mulling his suggestion over in her head, before she finally sighs and returns to the parlor. Taking her seat at the secretariat, she opens her letter and reads it quickly, eager to absorb every word, every detail. Eager to forget about Randolph for only a few moments.

The writer is clearly concerned for her health and happiness, asking if she needs anything and telling her what has taken place in London since her absence. When she finishes, she must read it again, for she read it so fast the first time that she feels she must have missed something. But she hasn't; everything is perfect. She reaches the end again, and gazes sadly at the signature.

_So different from Randolph_ , she thinks hopelessly.

What she wouldn't give to be in London, again.


	42. Both Sides Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece thinks about Colin during a society tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Joni Mitchell, released in 1969. I also refer to several lyrics within this chapter, some of them direct pulls (the dizzy dancing way you feel), others simply eluded to (but now old friends are acting strange, they shake their heads, they say I've changed).
> 
> ~BD

****

## Both Sides Now

****

She stares into her teacup, watching the slight ripples in the creamy liquid. She doesn't realize that she's been staring into it for the past ten minutes without speaking once, and she doesn't realize that Mrs. Harvey has been watching her curiously.

The other ladies gathered about Mrs. Walcott's prestigious parlor are, understandably, a bit surprised by the silence of a usually vivacious young woman, but they attribute Cece's change in demeanor to her father's unexpected stroke and hovering illness. Twittering sympathetically, they add that on top of Mr. Castor's rapidly declining health, his daughter is likely exhausted from her return trip from England and all the work she has taken upon herself as executor of the estate, despite her age and sex.

(Mr. Castor, the ladies agree, was always an eccentric gentleman, always hopelessly fond of his only child ((particularly after her mother's untimely death)), and therefore must be granted his indulgences, and the unorthodox way Cece was educated and raised. It isn't uncommon for some women of society to attend college of course, but it is rather unusual for a man to give his daughter such liberties with finances and business affairs. She always seemed to handle it well enough, but it is obvious, they declare, that the recent events have tested her forbearance.)

Cece hears none of this; her mind is thousands of miles away. The previous night's events with Randolph at the Pearson's dinner party are gnawing away at her in a way that even her father's health hasn't done yet. Randolph hardly allowed her the chance to speak to anyone about the polished table, often spoke on her behalf, jested with the other men in the room (and sometimes with the other ladies, who simpered over him something ridiculous), and couldn't seem to stop bringing up the subject of his variety of businesses and investments. Just because he was one of the wealthiest men in Boston didn't mean he needed to advertise the bloody fact. Had he always been like that?

She recalls one particular evening in London, just two nights after the Harvey's summer evening garden party at which she had first met Colin. On their second meeting, the two of them had taken seats in a corner of the parlor, away from the other guests, and Colin eagerly told her of his father's estate in Yorkshire. She had listened with fascination and told him of her own father's additional homes – one in mountains of Vermont and one on the Massachusetts coast. He had been just as interested in where she lived as she had been about where he lived. They discussed flora and fauna, seasons, activities they enjoyed at their respective homes. They discussed visiting each other and laughed at the thought.

_Ironic_ , she thinks bitterly, how much more interesting Colin's topics of conversation are than Randolph's.

But that's just it: Everything about Colin _isn't Randolph_.

Where to even start, she wonders? Colin is vibrant and pleasant; he has a wonderful, wry sense of humor and a dry wit about him that draws her in. Half the time in London, he had her fits of giggles that she felt hopelessly silly over (never mind that half the time, she had him in stitches of laughter, too). He isn't foppish or dull or idiotic, despite his wealth and social status. He's also quite young; God! he's only nineteen, just a year older than she is. Maybe that was another reason they hit it off so smashingly well, as he'd often put it – because they're so close in age. He's also well built, athletic, tall, and handsome. He has thick, tousled hair and a decidedly British, cheeky smile. He dresses with impeccable neatness, but with a stylish sense of flair, always slightly different from most of the other men in their social groups, just enough to set him apart.

Randolph, while handsome enough, is gradually aging and tends to wear tailored suits straight out of the fashion magazines, without any sort of deviance. His face has lines that Colin's doesn't yet, his hair is a bland color that seems to be fading and thinning (and Heaven forbid it be uncombed), and though he's slender enough, he's not nearly as fit or in shape as Colin is. He doesn't exercise except for sport; Colin exercises to stay trim. Cece once overheard Grace Willingham whispering to one of her young friends that Colin was well muscled but lean beneath his clothing – apparently the silly little chit had snuck in on him while he was residing with the Willinghams the previous year. Cece had merely shaken her head at Grace's lack of manners when she heard this particular tale; now, her blood quickens at the thought of Colin in shirtsleeves. He goes to a gymnasium in his free time and lifts weights and rows and bicycles, and he participated in track and field at King's College. One night, when they were dancing at a party and her hand was resting on his upper arm and shoulder, she could feel the sleek, hard curve of muscle beneath the suit sleeve and wondered what he looked like without his clothes. The result had her blushing fiercely and instantaneously, and Colin looking baffled as he inquired if she were just hot from being in a crowded room of people.

(She'd told him she was, and he immediately led her outside onto the terrace for fresh air.)

Randolph? Well, he sometimes goes...yachting, is it? Yes, that's it. Sometimes. If the weather was nice and his friends can talk him into it. If he doesn't have previous engagements.

And then, perhaps most importantly, there was the fact that Colin had been utterly devoted to her in a way that Randolph has never been. Randolph has known her since she was a young teenager, when he first started working with her father on various business deals. She grew accustomed to his presence because her father valued his intelligence and shrewd business ability and, to be honest, she never thought anything of his personality until recently. She always thought him charming and doting, for he was forever bringing her little gifts and taking the time to talk to her about her schooling and her social engagements. But now, now that she's older, she can tell that Randolph is far more interested in his own affairs then in her. He desires only to look good before his peers, his colleagues, his business clients, and other wealthy members of society. He's never been nearly as interested in _her_ , even when he took time to talk to her when she was younger.

Colin, on the other hand, though in possession of just as much money as Randolph (or near to it), has a devil-may-care attitude and does whatever the bloody hell he wants. He invests in what he wants, befriends whom he wants, and goes about life with an entirely different outlook than Randolph does. He isn't consumed by business affairs.

When the Harveys originally asked Colin to act as an unofficial escort to Cece while she was staying with them in London, he had done so graciously at first, pleasantly, without asking if there was anything in it for him. But all of their time together had only brought them closer, rather than the two of them remaining aloof with each other out of propriety. And really, by the time she left, he was attending to her because he cared about her as a person and a dear friend – not because the Harveys had asked him to. He didn't even stop to think about it, because he was, and still is, Colin.

Randolph? God, Randolph is always stopping to think. He is always calculating. Always cunning. Always...manipulative.

How on earth can she possibly break off her relationship with Randolph? Would Colin even be willing to...?

To _what_? _Marry her_?

Her hands feel cold, suddenly. Life as Colin's wife would be utterly carefree, utterly perfect. Oh, they would spat occasionally – they'd had a few light-hearted arguments during their friendship. But it was never anything serious. She briefly considers how much attention she would receive from him if he were her husband – the idea is so blissful that she has to swallow and close her eyes and refocus on where she is. God help her; _she's in love with Colin_! What's happened to her? When did she fall in love with him?

And then, without warning, Paulette Moore interrupts her thoughts in a most unwelcome way.

"Oh, my goodness, Cece! I meant to tell you straight away and I completely forgot! How silly of me! While I was on my way here this morning, _guess_ who I saw!"

Before Cece can fathom a guess, Paulette rambles on energetically. "Mr. _Garrett_! And _guess_ where he was?"

Again, she hardly opens her mouth before Paulette gushes, " _Lowaski's_!"

Instantly, the other women gasp and very nearly squeal, while Cece's stomach drops several inches and she feels physical ill.

_Lowaski's Fine Gems and Jewelry_.

Of _course_. Randolph would only want the best glittering on her left hand, to make certain everyone else notices. To make certain she belongs to him, and no one forgets it.

Enviously, Beatrice says, "Oh, isn't that wonderful? He'll ask you for certain at the Moorehead's soiree tomorrow night."

"I wish Walter had bought my ring from Lowaski's," Jeanne Benson looks at her own left hand wistfully, where a sizeable emerald sparkles.

Annoyed, Cece states, "Your ring is beautiful!" And then, almost as though she can't help it, she queries, "And it doesn't matter, does it? Not if you love him, Jeannie."

Jeanne pouts. "Oh, pooh. I wish it were as big as yours will be. Randolph will spend a fortune on you, just wait and see! You likely won't even be able to lift your hand!"

The thought is absolutely awful, and Cece tries to refocus. But before she can argue the point, Mrs. Longstreet says cheerfully, "Yes, Randolph certainly will be able to take care of you, my dear. Especially with your father being so ill. What a blessing!"

"Yes," the other girls and ladies (minus Mrs. Harvey, she notices) echo. "It is! Such a blessing!"

Desperate, and trying not to sound so, Cece says carefully, "It's just that sometimes... I wonder if he even notices me. Randolph is so busy, and –"

Mrs. Upson laughs, that ridiculous laugh of hers that almost sounds like a bird in pain. One that's being tortured by a particularly enthusiastic cat, actually. "Oh heavens, dear. You mustn't think that way. Leave the business to him and enjoy yourself!"

Unbidden, something Colin said to her on their very first meeting floats to the surface of her mind. He had been talking about his cousin, that night. When he'd been slightly smashed and yet still a gentleman despite that. He was rather adorable when he was drunk, but she had only seen him that way the one time. (He'd vowed empathically the next day, with a terrible hangover and a fuming temper at her amusement in his plight, that he would _never_ drink like that again).

_She's hopelessly in love with him_ , he had said. His voice had been so wistful, so sad, so depressed – because he wanted the same type of experience. And it had seemed strange to Cece then, that a young woman with all of London society spread out before her, ready for the taking, should leave behind everything and marry a common country man from Yorkshire. Colin had told her more as their friendship developed into a trusting, understanding relationship – she learned more of Mary and Dickon both, and trusted Colin's high opinion of each. But still, that Mary had given up a life of luxury for love had been difficult for Cece to grasp, then.

Startling how such things suddenly make _sense_ , she thinks. She isn't remotely _hopelessly in love_ with Randolph and she never has been, now that she stops to think on it. As Mrs. Longstreet said – before meeting Colin, she only thought of being taken care of. Now...?

Her next question comes out without warning, directed towards Mrs. Longstreet. "How did it feel when you fell in love?" she asks seriously.

Mrs. Longstreet seems momentarily surprised, but says airily, "Oh, I knew George was the right man. He had so much property, so many connections! He was sure to make something of himself. I was quite young," she admits fondly. "But I knew it would be the best match I could have ever made!"

"Yes, but how did you _feel_?" Cece repeats.

"Feel?" Mrs. Longstreet and the other ladies gathered about look at her in utter confusion. "Didn't I just tell you?"

"No, I meant... The... the dizzy, dancing way you feel when you... fall in love." Cece's cheeks are warm and she diverts her eyes. She has no other way to describe it. She isn't thinking of Randolph at all; she is thinking of a night she had been on the Forresters' back balcony during an evening soiree more fancy than most during her time in London with the Harveys. Everyone else had been in the parlor, the dining room, and the ballroom; she and Colin had stepped out for fresh air. He'd been pointing out stars and constellations, and he'd leaned close to her so she could follow along. His left hand had fallen to the small of her back, the heat from his skin radiating through the silk of her shimmering, snug evening gown; his right had gone up to show her Polaris. He'd leaned down and whispered the name in her ear, and God help her! His breath had tickled, warm and damp against her skin, and she'd actually felt dizzy. At that moment, the only thing she wanted was for him to press his lips below her ear, then to her neck, then her throat, then to her mouth. It had taken everything she had to remain calm and respond to whatever it was he'd said. She'd never felt _dizzy_ like that – not even when Randolph had held her hands or pecked her on the lips (which he'd only done a couple of times, really). She hadn't felt _anything_ with Randolph, she was certain of it. Because when she was around Colin she felt _everything_.

Paulette giggles. " _Dizzy dancing feeling_? What on earth are you talking about, Cece?"

"Cece," Mrs. Upson says seriously, "Ever since you returned from London, you've changed, dear."

Cece glances, for some unknown reason, to her right, towards Mrs. Harvey, who hasn't said a word yet. To her horror, the lady is watching her very closely, almost surprised and confused, almost as though she... _knows_. Cece falls silent again and diverts her eyes to the floor, realizing she's let far too much slip around her father's friend's wife. She _has_ changed. Even Randolph noticed, unfortunately. And she doesn't want to get Colin in trouble with the Harveys, because it was never supposed to be like this. Her heart beats faster and harder against her ribs. She and Colin were never supposed to fall in love with each other. Mr. Harvey had specifically suggested Colin escort her about London, because of the younger man's sense, after all. Because Colin would understand that Cece was involved in a relationship already.

"It's just how she feels about Randolph," Jeanne says, her voice wistful again.

"Oh." Paulette sighs dreamily. "I see, now!"

Worried about Mrs. Harvey's reaction to her questions, Cece says nothing else for the rest of the afternoon. She can't possibly give any more away then she already has. But it is evident that no one knew what she was talking about when she questioned them on the subject of real love, and no one will remotely understand why a beautiful girl named Mary Lennox turned her back on London society to marry an unknown, but wonderfully kind man named Dickon Sowerby.

She is concerned when they leave the tea that Mrs. Harvey will want to know what is going on, but to her surprise, the lady still remains silent. She just watches Cece thoughtfully as they climb into the back of the cab, much to Cece's disconcertment. All the way back to the Castor Mansion, and inside, until Cece finds her way to her father's room to relieve the nurse for an hour or so, and in the process escapes from Mrs. Harvey's scrutiny for a while.

And only once she is in her father's room, beside his bed, in the quiet and darkness, does she feel a wave of enormous guilt. She hasn't thought of him hardly once all afternoon, so consumed is she by Colin.

Unbidden, she begins to cry silently. She has no idea what to do.


	43. How Forever Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece turns down Randolph's proposal, with slightly violent results.
> 
> Warning: Mild physical violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Kenny Chesney, released in 1999.
> 
> Since I did chapters for Dickon, Mary and Colin on feeling "left out", I thought I'd do one for Cece, too. Since she took over this part of the story...
> 
> ~BD

****

## How Forever Feels

****

Cece feels isolated.

She sits upon the plush, velveteen sofa in the parlor of her father's mansion, surrounded by people she is honored to call friends. And yet, despite this, she feels as though she is alien to everything she knows at this moment, and especially distant from those who love her.

Mr. Harvey is just outside of the parlor in the entry hall, volubly complaining to the chief of police on the telephone. Cece closes her eyes, trying desperately to block his words, for she has never heard the man so angry. He is always so good-natured, so cheerful and ruddy-faced and quintessentially British, that the change is as abrupt and disturbing as everything else.

Closing her eyes hurts, however. So she opens them once more, only to find Mrs. Harvey and Mrs. Opal (their monstrous cook), watching her with the utmost concern while fussing over her with a damp, cool cloth.

_"Good God, Lu! What the devil are you doing? You're not even dressed! We're to be at the Mooreheads' in fifteen minutes!"_

_"I'm not going."_

_"What the hell do you mean, you're not going?"_

_"Just that. I'm not going. Give them my regards, will you?"_

_"Regards, hell! Lucinda Chloe Castor, get upstairs right this second and get dressed for dinner! I won't stand for this!"_

"I think we'd best send for a doctor," Mrs. Harvey suggests, breaking through the fresh memory in Cece's head and bringing her back to the present. Though the memory is only a couple of hours old, really.

Mrs. Opal is frowning severely. "I don't think anything's broken, but I think you're right," she agrees.

Cece says nothing; she has no idea what she could possibly contribute to the conversation at this point. Besides, she is too drained to think clearly.

It is a sad feeling, similar and yet incredibly different from how she felt when she told Colin goodbye in London. She is sad and anxious that Mrs. Harvey should look so worried, that Mr. Harvey should sound so furious as he demands to know why the police can't do anything, that Mrs. Opal looks as though she could commit murder and not care two cents if she were to hang for it, and that Jamison looks as though perhaps it is somehow his fault; that he possibly failed his mistress by not being in the room at the time. It makes her feel as though she is intruding upon their emotions – something she shouldn't be a part of and yet, is the very center of. Because essentially, their emotions are because of her. She hates herself for it, and it makes her feel...

Isolated.

_"What the hell has come over you, Lu?"_

Her gaze flickers to the fire; she ignores the stinging sensation at the corner of her left eye while Mrs. Opal continues to dab at it with warm water, the lady's deft fingers gingerly feeling about the bruised cheekbone. Cece does not flinch or wince, but instead tries to see if there are any remnants of the letter remaining among the ashes in the bottom of the grate.

It doesn't appear so.

_His eyes had flickered to the secretariat, and her body went numb. She hadn't placed Colin's latest letter upstairs in her room yet, with the others._

_He snatched it before she could react, and frowned at the script. "A friend from London, I see? A male friend, judging by the handwriting."_

_Amazingly, she had kept her voice calm and even; she'd shrugged and said, "So?"_

_"Oh, yes. Colin. I remember old Harvey writing about him. He escorted you about London, if my memory serves correctly."_

_"Yes, he did. And, if my memory serves correctly, I informed you of the same fact. I also recall that you approved of the idea at the time."_

_"I did approve of it at the time, because I didn't think you would be silly enough to become infatuated with a college boy who doesn't even need to shave yet. Now I find that you've been secretly writing to him behind my back? Is that what's going on?" The hardness in his face was frightening._

_"I'm not secretly writing to Colin. And he's not a college boy, either."_

_"Just because he graduated a month ago doesn't change his age. He's eighteen, Lu."_

_"Nineteen." The correction was automatic._

_"God! Listen to you! You are infatuated with him, damn it! I can look at you and tell! You've never been good at lying, Lu!"_

Mr. Harvey steps into the parlor, his face a blotchy purple. "The police," he says curtly, "are terribly sorry, but they don't believe they will be able to do anything more then file a report. Mr. Garrett has apparently made considerable monetary contributions to both the police department and the fire department, and that takes unofficial precedent. I intend to file an official complaint first thing in the morning with the chief himself."

Mrs. Opal swells like a bullfrog. "Corruption!" she snaps, stamping her foot on the carpet. "That's what it is! Blatant corruption! Miss Cindy, when your father passes, I sincerely hope you consider moving all of us somewhere else! What in heaven is this city coming to? Not even taking a report for domestic violence! Utter corruption, I say!"

"I'm not the first bit surprised," Mrs. Harvey says more reasonably, though sighing heavily at the same time. "Do be a love, Oscar, and call Doctor White? We don't think anything is broken, but it would likely be best to have a professional examine her."

"Likely," Mr. Harvey agrees darkly. "It will also be another record of the incident. And I would like to have as many of those as possible." He turns and disappears back into the entry hall.

Mrs. Harvey turns back to Cece, looking stricken. "Darling," she says anxiously, "Why didn't you tell us that you weren't in love with Randolph? We would have made certain we were with you when you told him you didn't want to marry him!"

Cece doesn't respond. Randolph was her problem and she wanted to deal with it herself. Sometimes it becomes tiresome, relying on others.

_"Very well, then. If you aren't infatuated with him, and you're still in love with me, I want you to go upstairs this minute, and get ready for dinner." His voice was suddenly smooth, suddenly calm. "I'm sure the other guests won't mind if we're fashionably late, just this once."_

_"I've already told you, Randolph. I'm not going."_

_The smoothness changed then; he never did like being defied. "I'm ordering you," he gritted out, "to go upstairs this second, and get ready!"_

_"Why? So you can propose to me in front of everyone tonight? Is that why you're so insistent I go?"_

_His face drained of color when she called him out on the plan, and his body went slightly rigid. After a long moment, he finally stammered, "How on earth did you find out?"_

_"Oh, honestly!" she bit out scathingly. "Do you really think that no one would notice you walking into Lowaski's, of all places?"_

_He struggled – she could see the muscles in his jaw working as he tried to think of something to say, before he finally drew a deep breath. "Very well, yes! I was planning to propose to you officially tonight – I thought you'd be pleased, Lu! I thought you'd enjoy showing off a ring to everyone tonight!" He dug into his inside pocket then, and pulled out a small, black velvet box. "Everyone will be happy for you, and –"_

_The sight of the box repulsed her and made her feel quite cold. "No, Randolph."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"To answer the question. No. I can't marry you. There, that's behind us, now. And if you would give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Moorehead –"_

_"What do you mean, you can't marry me?"_

_"Just that! I don't know how I can say it more plainly. I can't marry you. I'm not in love with you. I'm sorry, Randolph."_

She is so deep in her thoughts, reliving those awful moments, that she actually rises from the couch despite Mrs. Harvey's protests, and moves to the fire, kneeling on the rug and reaching into the grate. Because she thought she saw a glimpse of paper not burnt, and was desperate to retrieve it.

"Cece, what on earth are you doing?" Mrs. Harvey sounds stunned.

"I thought..." Cece swallows and withdraws her hand. "I thought I saw something, was all. Randolph burnt one of my letters."

She knows this can't possibly make the first bit of sense, and yet, she doesn't really care. She's beyond caring about much of anything for the moment. Tomorrow, perhaps. But not tonight.

"One of your letters? From whom?"

She is too tired to try and conceal anything else, and responds dully, "Colin."

_He moved so quickly that she was unable to stop him – he grabbed the letter from the secretariat and stormed around her, despite her immediate protests. Perhaps it was her protests that pushed him over the edge; that made him so far gone that he couldn't think clearly. When she snatched for the envelope, he merely held it out of her reach and, in a show of defiance, he had furiously thrown it into the fire. She watched in horror as the flames licked and burnt the paper until the last of Colin's handwriting vanished into smoke. When it did, he gripped her arm in a vice and yanked her about to face him._

_"Go upstairs," he repeated in a deadly voice, "And get dressed for dinner, Lu. I'll not have you throw your life away on an infatuation!"_

"Colin? But why on earth should Randolph burn one of Colin's letters?" Mrs. Harvey asks.

Cece's shoulders drop and she brushes her ashy hand against her dress, not even caring that she'll ruin the fabric. "It doesn't matter," she says wearily.

Mr. Harvey steps back into the parlor. "The doctor will be here shortly," he announces. "Cece, goodness! Sit down – you shouldn't be standing or walking right now! What if you have a concussion?"

"Cece, it does matter, too," Mrs. Harvey says, ignoring her husband for once. "Why would Randolph burn one of your letters from Colin?"

"What?" Mr. Harvey stares between the two, momentarily distracted.

"Yes, sir. He burnt one of Colin's letters," Cece repeats, finding that her temper is fraying and she's starting to become cross. It would be nice to crawl into a soft, warm bed and forget the entire evening. "I told Randolph that I wasn't in love with him, and wouldn't marry him; so he threw Colin's letter into the fire. He told me I was throwing my life away on a silly infatuation and he wouldn't have it. I never thought him stupid. I suppose I was wrong." She sits down on the couch again, with her elbows on her knees and her palms pressed into her eyes, so that everything becomes black.

"Was that when he struck you?" Mr. Harvey asks sharply.

"Yes, it was," she mumbles. "I was too surprised by what he'd done to do anything except stand there and look shocked, which was exactly what I felt. It was a clear opening for him."

The Harveys fall silent, as do the servants of the Castor household. Cece refuses to look up at them, to see the expressions of sympathy and concern and pity, and so she keeps her eyes pressed into her palms. She cannot think of anything else relevant to say, and so she says nothing at all.


	44. Love is Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter backtracks a bit, and shows Lord Craven, Mary, and Dickon's reactions to Colin leaving so unexpected for America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Peaches & Herb, released in 1968.

****

## Love is Strange

****

"If that isn't just like him!" Mary shakes her head in resignation. "Did he say _why_?"

Archibald Craven continues to gaze out of the dining room windows across the dark, cold lawns. "No, he did not. He only stated that Oscar Harvey had telegrammed for his assistance with some business accounts." His brow furrows slightly. "I should think it something peculiar to request Colin's help, though. Especially considering that Mr. Harvey has many other, older, more experienced connections."

"Quite strange," Mary agrees, and she returns to straightening napkins upon the lace tablecloth while they wait for dinner to be served.

"Strange? What's strange?"

She turns and smiles at her husband, who has entered the dining room in fresh, clean clothes. There isn't much work this time of year in the gardens, which allows them an opportunity to dine with Lord Craven.

"One of Colin's older acquaintances requested his assistance with some business accounts – in Boston, of all places! I can't imagine why, and naturally, Colin declined to tell Uncle Archie anything except that he had to leave immediately. He took off this morning before dawn for Thwaite and then on to Southampton."

To her surprise, Dickon's face changes subtly, taking on a curious, thoughtful expression.

"Dickon? Is something wrong?" Lord Craven asks, as he meanders from the window to the head chair at the table.

"Oh, no, sir. Jus' thinkin' it mun be something important for such a man t' ask Colin t' go t' th' States this time o' year for business."

"Hmm. That's what Mary said." The older man sighs heavily. "Well, I expect Colin will tell us when he thinks of it."

"He jus' up an' left, did he?"

"He did. The _Olympic_ was departing for New York this afternoon and he said something about not wanting to wait any longer then necessary."

"For someone so intelligent," Mary says, rolling her eyes, "I wonder why he doesn't bother to give anyone any additional information, really. About anything."

"I'm sure he will when he thinks o' it." Dickon smiles, but Mary can tell that it's a slightly forced smile. She's known him long enough to decipher certain expressions upon his face or in his eyes, after all.

"Or sometimes," she says, her tone one of mock-severity, "he _does_ tell someone."

Her husband seems taken aback, but merely says, "Did he say when he'd be returnin'?"

"No, of course not. You know that even Colin won't know that until he makes his mind up _to_ come back." She steps up to Dickon and arches an eyebrow. "Well? What do you know about this? I can tell you know _something_. You can't stand there and tell me you don't, Dickon."

Dickon smiles, genuinely this time. "Eh, Mary. Colin doesn't tell me _everything_ ; tha knows he doesn'. However, he did tell me he'd been helpin' a Mr. Harvey with some things b'fore Christmas, so I figure it's something t' do with that. I wouldn' worry, if I were thee. Colin knows wha' he's doin', and he's finished with his schoolin'."

"I suppose he has a point," Archibald Craven agrees, glancing between his niece and Dickon.

The dining room door opens again, and Mrs. Medlock steps in briefly. "Dinner, sir," she announces in her usual, formal voice to Lord Craven.

"Very well, thank you, Medlock."

She nods once and holds the door for one of the maids to bring in the cart, and the subject of Colin's abrupt departure is dropped for the time being.


	45. Morning Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin arrives in Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Neon Philharmonic, released in 1969.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Morning Girl

****

Snow covers the city of Boston.

He leans back in the seat of the cab and watches the gray sky and the lifeless trees beyond the foggy window, and he wonders how he got here.

Then the logical part of his brain kicks into action and sarcastically reminds him that it was really quite easy. He purchased a first class ticket on the _HMS Olympic_ , caught a train from Twaite to London, changed trains and caught a second to Southampton, boarded the White Star liner, paced the deck despite the foul weather of the Northern Atlantic in late winter for several days, docked in New York, caught a train to Boston, sent his luggage to the luxury hotel where he'd already booked a suite ahead of time, and caught a cab to the address Mr. Harvey had indicated on the telegram.

A telegram that is crumpled and bent and worn from the countless times he's read it over the past few days, trying to make sense of it.

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself; it doesn't work and he finds that he doesn't know what to feel, except worry and anxiety and nerves.

What if Randolph opens the door? What if Cece is wearing an engagement ring when he sees her? What if Randolph orders him out? What if Cece tells him that he dreamed up the chaste, fleeting kiss she gave him before she left for the States and that it never really happened at all? What if she looks at him scornfully, disgusted that he would show up at all?

_...what do you do if your heart breaks?_

His gut twists sharply at the thought. He should have asked Dickon that one, before he left. Dickon would know the answer, like he knows everything else.

_Too late now_ , he thinks bitterly.

The cab crawls to a halt in front of a huge, white mansion in a fashionable part of Boston, in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods, and he marvels briefly at the tall, stately hemlocks and the Corinthian columns lining the porch, the wrought iron fence that borders the pavement and the snow-covered lawn, the brick steps that lead to a latched gate made of the same wrought iron. So very different from the ancient, fortified exterior of Misselthwaite, with its red Tudor brick and thick glass windows and the long, imposing avenue.

Moments later, alone (for the cab has pulled away), with only the wind nipping his ears and the sound of silence pressing about him, Colin rings the bell. He abruptly realizes that he hasn't slept at all the past night and he must have dark circles beneath his eyes, not to mention looking pale and drawn. He probably looks like a bloody nightmare.

He sees the blurred outline of an approaching man through the frosty glass windows that frame the front door, and after another second the door clicks open, and he finds himself face to face with a butler, whose expression becomes cheerful and pleasant at seeing Colin standing on the porch with his hands jammed deep in his coat pockets and the collar turned up against the New England wind.

"Ah, yes! You must be Mr. Craven!" he says, stepping back and inviting Colin inside. "Do come inside, sir. I was told to expect you."

"I'm here to see Mr. Harvey, please. I received a telegram –"

"Yes, yes. He's stepped out for a couple of hours on urgent business and asked me to convey his most sincere apologies if you were to call before he returns. Will you wait, sir? He was quite insistent."

Colin hesitates, then says, "Well, only if no one minds..."

"Not at all, sir! This way, sir."

The butler graciously leads him across the wide hall and into a parlor with a roaring fire. Colin glimpses a couple of photographs on the walls and recognizes Cece in the black and white prints; in one, she stands beside her seated father, in another she sits alone, wearing an elegant, frothy dress as a young teenager. She is uncommonly pretty, he thinks wretchedly. He can't bear the idea that he's lost her. And really, he already has, so...

"Tea? Or perhaps something stronger, sir?"

The butler is watching him curiously, and Colin realizes he hasn't taken his coat off, yet. Quickly shrugging out of it, as well as his scarf and gloves, he says quietly, "Tea, if it's no trouble. With cream, please?"

The butler's eyebrows lift slightly at the politeness in Colin's tone, and Colin remembers with a pang how rude he was as a child to his servants.

"Of course, sir," the butler replies, after his initial surprise. He drapes the heavy coat over his arm and gestures towards the fire with his other hand. "If you'll make yourself at home, sir?"

Colin nods and steps up to the blaze and holds his hands out, but the nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach doesn't dissipate.

It is hardly a few minutes before the butler reappears with a tray of tea and cake, which he places upon the antique coffee table. He begins to efficiently prepare a cup while Colin watches from the hearth.

"I'll let Mr. Harvey know you're here, the moment he arrives," the butler promises, stepping back once he has finished the task.

"Thank you."

The man disappears into the entrance hall, and Colin turns back to the fire, for his hands are still cold and his stomach is in too many knots to enjoy tea just yet. Still, moments later, when he hears a familiar voice from the foyer, his heart leaps against his ribs painfully.

"Jamison, did I hear the doorbell a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, Miss Cindy, but –"

"I do hope you were going to tell me?" She sounds aghast that he may _not_ have told her.

"Well actually, Miss Cindy, the gentleman is here to see Mr. Harvey –"

"Good Lord! Mr. Harvey won't be back for another hour, at least! Jamison, really, everyone in town would talk if I didn't greet a guest properly, especially if he's to wait an entire hour for Mr. Harvey! You know they would!" She laughs softly at this, revealing that she isn't actually angry with the butler, and Colin wishes his heart would stop racing so bloody fast.

"I would hope they'd believe it was because you were upstairs with your father, Miss Cindy! I've explained to the gentleman that Mr. Harvey is out on urgent business –"

"Oh, that won't matter in the least when it comes to old gossips. Did you bring tea for our guest, yet?"

"Yes, Miss, but –!"

The pocket doors open from the entrance hall, and Cece steps into the room, in a beautiful skirt and sweater combination that belies a newer, more fashionable style starting to sweep the world since the conclusion of the war. Her hair, in soft waves, is pulled back with a pretty barrette, and her heels click slightly against the hardwood floors. But when she realizes who is standing beside the fire, she freezes, and her eyes widen in shock.

" _Colin_?"

He opens his mouth a couple of times before he finally stammers, "I– I can explain. Mr. Harvey sent me this –" He pulls the telegram out of his vest pocket and holds it out, almost hopelessly, because he isn't sure how it can possibly help at this moment. "He said you needed some assistance with your father's accounts and asked me to... to board the next liner...?"

He trails off and she steps closer, staring all the while at the piece of paper in his hand as though she's never seen a telegram in her life.

And it is then that he notices her face is different. There is a fading bruise against her left eye, marring the pretty porcelain of her skin. It most certainly _wasn't_ there the last time he saw her. Immediately, he closes the gap between them and gently brings his fingers to the purplish-yellow patch. "What _happened_?" he blurts out. "Are you alright?"

She flinches at the contact and looks away, as though embarrassed. "It's nothing! I'm fine!"

The butler, watching from the doorway, says flatly, "He struck her, sir."

" _Who_ struck her?" Colin demands sharply, withdrawing his hand while his eyes narrow at Jamison. His stomach is no longer knotting and twisting with anxiety. In fact, it seems to be simmering and bubbling with rapid anger. What the hell has he missed in two months? What's going on?

" _Jamison_!" Cece's voice is just as sharp as his and he feels a thrill of excitement at the banter he's missed for the past three months. Except that someone actually _hit_ her, which sort-of distracts from the enjoyment...

"Mr. Garrett, sir," Jamison goes on tonelessly, despite the order from his mistress that he should remain quiet. His dark, glittering eyes reveal his real emotions – the butler is clearly angry that someone hit "Miss Cindy", and is glad to be passing along the information to a person who obviously cares.

Cece stiffens; the bubbling in Colin's stomach turns to a burning in his veins and he swivels to face her.

"He _hit you_?" The words come out gritted. Forced. Almost as though someone ripped them from his chest.

He doesn't wait for a response. He seems to be thinking very clearly, though he's really not. He's already past Jamison and reaching for his coat on the rack beside the door.

"Where can I find him?" he snarls.

Jamison opens his mouth, but Cece cuts in, obviously horrified. "Don't you _dare_ tell him!" she cries at her servant, before turning to Colin and adding furiously, "And don't you dare go out looking for him! You'll end up in jail and on trial or something equally awful, and then what am I going to do? He's not worth it, Colin!"

"But _you are_ ," he responds heatedly, without thinking.

The pink tint on her cheeks becomes a real blush, but she doesn't divert her eyes from his as many other girls would. Instead, she says firmly, "He has too many connections here! If we were in England, it would be different! But there isn't anything you can do right now, except come back into the parlor and have tea. _Please_? Don't do anything rash. You always were hot-headed!"

"I am not!"

"You are, too!"

"But he _hit you_!"

"Yes, damn it all, we've established that! It was over a week ago! What, did you take a French liner over here? They're _notoriously_ slow."

He feels heat creeping up the back of his neck at the barb and he throws back, "No, I took the _Olympic_!"

"Good Lord, _there's_ a shock! All of London will be talking! Colin Craven _actually boarded_ a White Star liner!"

For a moment, they stand in a battle of wills – almost nose to nose, except that even in heels she's not tall enough to meet him. But her eyes are the same beautiful hazel-grayish-blue he remembers, very different from Mary's bright sky-blue irises. Struggling with the fact that perhaps he _is_ rather hotheaded at times (something that his father and Dickon and Mary have told him more than once in his life), Colin releases his coat and tries to take defeat stoically. Cece is right. It wouldn't do to go searching for a man who has too much clout in Boston, and who would likely press charges if Colin tried to do anything in retaliation, no matter how much he wants to punch the man across the jaw.

Cece, however, looks relieved at his decision and quickly takes his hand, tugging him back towards the parlor. "Come then," she says, leading him back to the fire. "You're utterly exhausted. I can tell. Good God, Colin, have you even slept in a week?" Her fingers come up and she traces the circle beneath his left eye. She looks worried for him, and that makes him feel worse.

"No, not really," he responds dully. "Damn it, I shouldn't have waited for Mr. Harvey to ask me to come. I just should have followed you to start with! Then this wouldn't have happened!"

She pauses, and without warning, she throws her arms around him and really _holds on_ – so tightly that he feels his body protest slightly. She says softly, "It was better this way. Believe it or not. I know now that I was never in love with Randolph."

He sighs and wraps his arms around her, though slightly awkward. He isn't certain what to do next because he's never held a woman so close before, and he doesn't want to frighten her after all she's been through the past few weeks.

"I missed you so much," she murmurs, seemingly unaware of his hesitation. Her breath is warm against his skin, her fingers threading into the short hair against his neck. It all tickles and makes his body tingle and he shifts slightly. She's very supple; her body just seems to mold and flow against him.

"I missed you, too," he manages, his throat closing up a little.

After a few more moments, she finally steps back and brushes her fingers to her eyes, which are wet in the firelight. "Have some tea before it gets cold," she insists, in an attempt to sound cheerful. "Jamison's likely gone upstairs to prepare a room for you."

Colin immediately protests. "I'm staying at a hotel downtown –"

"Absolutely not. You're staying here. I'm certain Mr. Harvey will agree."

He's too exhausted and drained to argue, so he sinks onto the sofa, resisting the urge to flop onto it as he would if he were at Misselthwaite. Though Cece, of all people, probably wouldn't care.

"Fine," he mumbles. Then, as she hands him a teacup, he asks guiltily, "How is your father?"

She sits beside him, closer then she probably should, and when he glances at her, he realizes that her face briefly shows the strain she's been under for the past couple of months. "Worse," she whispers. "The doctors are surprised he's held on this long. He can't speak because of the stroke, but if I ask him yes or no questions, he can squeeze my hand in response. One for yes, two for no. The nurse sits with him most of the time, but I take over for her a couple of hours during the day so I can spend time with him. I don't expect him to live much longer." Her voice chokes slightly and she swallows hard, as though trying to resist the urge to cry.

"I'll stay with you," he promises. "Until then."

"Oh, Colin." Cece shakes her head and puts her own cup back onto the coffee table. "It could be a matter of days or weeks. That's just it – I don't know! And there's no sense in you staying here, waiting for a man to die, when you could be in London enjoying yourself –"

"How on earth could I be in London enjoying myself, knowing you're here alone? It doesn't matter how long. I'm staying until he gets better, or until he passes away. You can't talk me out of it."

After a moment, she smiles softly and shakes her head. "I suppose not. You're so incredibly stubborn. Well, I suppose you can go back through the accounts like Mr. Harvey telegrammed, while you wait. Even though I've done them all. But there many be something I've missed. And you're eyes are sharper then mine."

"I wouldn't say that, but I'll double check them for you all the same."

And suddenly, without any warning, she bursts into quiet tears.

Once upon a time, Colin may have been at a complete loss as to what to do for a crying woman. But now, he only smiles, puts his own teacup onto the coffee table, and pulls Cece against him, wrapping his arms around her so she can rest her forehead against his chest and just _cry_. She probably hasn't had a good cry in weeks, what with Randolph and the Harveys and everything else going on. He recalls that Mrs. Sowerby once told him that crying always makes a lady feel better, no matter that it may make little sense to cry when one could act instead. He didn't understand her at the time, but perhaps she was right.


	46. You Got Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece and Colin play chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Colbie Caillat, released in 2009.
> 
> ~BD

****

## You Got Me

****

"Check."

She makes a scathing noise and glares at him.

He gives her an apologetic smile.

Her eyes slide back to the carved ivory set between them. For a moment she sits with her arms crossed, frowning at the remaining pieces; finally, she lifts a slender hand and toys with her queen. "How did you get to be so good at chess?" she asks, more out of irritation then anything else.

"I'd like to know that myself." Mr. Harvey's voice floats across the parlor, from where he's been reading a book by the fire. He's been beaten six times in the past two days, and has declared that he's had his fair share of defeat.

The champion only smiles, and says nothing.

Her hand shifts to her king and she moves the piece back a square.

Immediately, he moves his queen two squares up and over. "Checkmate."

She huffs angrily, "That's it, I'm not playing chess with you any more, either!"

"Don't get upset," he wheedles. "It just takes practice."

"I've been playing against my father since I was twelve!" she snaps back. "I'd have thought that would have been plenty of practice!"

"Well, see? I've been playing against Mary since I was eleven. A good couple of years longer than you."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Is Mary good at chess?"

"You've no idea," he mutters, crossing his arms and scowling out the window at the snow-covered lawn.

She smirks at the suddenly-sullen tone in his voice. "Another reason," she says coyly, as she rises from her chair, "that I should like to meet her. Perhaps she can teach me her technique. Maybe then I could win a game."

"Doesn't help." He waves a hand aside. "I already know her technique, and it does absolutely no good when playing against her. But I used it against you," he adds, his expression turning mischievous, "and it worked very well."

She looks highly annoyed at this bit of information. "I'm not certain how to take that!"

He stands and passes very close to her, whispering so that Mr. Harvey can't hear, "You just have to think of your king or queen as... someone special."

She remains still for a moment after he's moved on to the secretariat, almost as though she's been stunned. Then, recovering, she asks loftily, "And just whom do you think of your pieces as, may I ask?"

He glances up and smiles at her, but says nothing, and returns to flipping open one of the account ledgers.

After a moment, she comes up behind him, leans in, and whispers, "Suit yourself, Colin. Let me know when you finish reviewing those ledgers, will you?" And before he can say a word, she saunters out of the room.


	47. Ask Me Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon hints to Mary about Colin's departure and absence, but doesn't really tell her what's going on, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by the Beatles, released in 1963.
> 
> A lot of my FFN reviewers were complaining before I posted this chapter that I had gotten away from Mary and Dickon. I confess, I was having a lot of fun with Cece and Colin. I made myself write this chapter for them, so I could get back to Colin's romance.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Ask Me Why

****

Dickon has been quiet all evening, only moving from his chair twice to stir the fire or add a log. Mary can tell he has something on his mind, but despite her curiosity, she has resolved to wait until he decides to tell her what it is.

And so she says nothing, but sits in comfortable silence in a rocking chair, stitching together quilt blocks. Mrs. Sowerby has promised to show her how to tack a quilt top and batting onto a backing this spring, and she is determined to complete the project before next autumn, if she can.

In fact, it is nearly time for bed when he finally muses softly, "Does tha remember th' first day I met thee?"

Mary smiles to herself at the memory, and continues the methodical stitches. "Aye, tha thought I were the queerest lass tha'd ever met. I don' know how tha could stand such a sullen girl from India. I mun 'ave seemed righ' strange t' thee!" She doesn't have to look at him to know he is smiling at her words.

"Aye. Tha told me tha'd stolen a garden, an' tha begged me not t' breathe a word t' a soul. An' I promised thee I wouldn'. I promised I'd keep thy secret, jus' as if tha were a missel thrush."

Her fingers suddenly still as she experiences a blinding wave of clarity; when she glances up at him in surprise, he is no longer smiling, but looks both sad and thoughtful.

"An' I did," he continues quietly. "I didn' tell a soul. If I'd told th' other lads where th' birds' nests an' fox holes were, then th' creatures wouldn' be safe. Tha was so like a missel thrush about th' garden. I didn' even tell mother – I jus' told her I was keepin' a secret, an' that it weren' a bad 'un. She said she understood that I couldn' tell her an' that she trusted me. It was thee who told Colin about th' garden, an' then th' two o' thee agreed that mother should know, too."

Mary rests her hands on the quilt squares in her lap. "This is about Colin, isn't it?" she asks gently. "About why he's really in Boston?"

He nods slowly and meets her gaze. "I promised him, see," he says, a tinge of guilt in his voice. "A'fore Christmas. An' I daren' go back on my word, even though I know I shouldn' keep secrets from thee. But... Colin's much like a missel thrush hisself righ' now, and I canna break my promise t' him."

Neatly folding the blocks and placing them back into her sewing basket, she says thoughtfully, "One o' th' reasons I love thee is because I know tha can keep a secret."

"Tha's not angry wit' me?"

"No. I'm not angry with you." Her shoulders slump slightly. "I just wish Colin had trusted me, too."

Dickon's eyes widen slightly. "Eh, tha shouldn' be hurt wit' Colin, Mary. He wasn' sure how t' tell thee, yet. But he will."

"How do you know he will?" She knows she sounds petulant and childish. But Colin is still her cousin, and her dearest friend aside from Dickon. That he hasn't told her what's going on in his life bothers her. It's as though they live in separate worlds, sometimes. She adds, "Maybe it's one of those things that men share with each other, and can't share with a girl."

"Nowt o' th' soart!" He chuckles. "In fact, a'fore Christmas, there were many a time I thought it would be better if he _did_ tell thee, because tha would give him a straight answer, tha would! He was downright moody wit' me, hopin' I'd tell him one thing when it was really something else he needed t' hear. An' he knew tha would tell him the truth instead o' bein' sympathetic or coddlin' him, an' so he was afraid t' tell thee. Colin admires thee verra much; he thinks tha's one o' the bravest lasses in th' world. He told me he had t' think o' th' best way t' tell thee, once he'd faced th' truth himself," he says encouragingly. "Because he already knew wha' tha would tell him." He pauses, then says sadly, "I am sorry I canna explain it any better."

She can't help but smile at this small speech, for it's just like all of them, how they feel about each other and how they instinctively _know_ each other. "You explained it very well, actually. Do you think he'll be home soon?"

"Eh, I canna tell." His brow furrows. "It hinges on somethin', see. It's soart o' complicated. Somethin' mun happen first, b'fore he can come home, an' there's no tellin' when it mayn' happen. But he thought it would happen sooner then later."

Mary rises, sighs in resignation, and tilts her head at him. "Now _that_ , on the other hand, was extremely confusing."

Dickon smiles wanly. "Aye, I'll warrant it was. I hope he'll be home b'fore spring. I think th' garden would do him good this spring."

"The garden," Mary smiles, "does anyone good in spring. Come on, then. It's past time for bed, and tha's got t' be at th' manor tomorrow mornin' bright an' early. An' when Colin does decide t' come home an' tell me wha's goin' on, I'll give him a piece o' my mind, I will. Tha can bet on it."

Her husband laughs. "Eh! I'd be right sorry if tha didn'!"


	48. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin receives a telephone call in Boston from his father, cousin, and best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Backstreet Boys, released in 2000.
> 
> ~BD

****

## The Call

****

When the telephone rings in the foyer during breakfast, he nearly bolts from his chair, hurries through the archway and around the corner (much to the confusion of Cece and the Harveys), grabs the earpiece, and says "Hello?" a little breathlessly.

The operator announces a call for _Mr. Colin Craven from Lord Archibald Craven, Thwaite, Yorkshire, United Kingdom_ , and a moment later he hears his father's voice crackling through the lines.

"Colin?"

"Yes, sir!" A smile blooms across his face and he leans into the apparatus. "You got my last telegram, then?"

"I did. I hope you are well?"

"Yes, sir, very well. And you?"

"A minor cough, but nothing serious. Between Mary and Medlock, I sometimes think I may very well live forever!" There is wry humor in the voice.

The rajah bursts into laughter at the jest. "Lord! But I do hope so!"

His father chuckles as well. "If nothing else, you _sound_ well!"

"I am, thank you."

"Do you know how much longer you will be away from us?"

The laughter immediately fades and he shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't told his father about Cece yet, simply because he isn't certain _how_ to explain it all. About her father, and Randolph, and how he fell in love with her last season, and all the conversations and flirtations and looks across rooms and light touches. He may have heard stories about how much his father was in love with his mother, but sometimes he wonders if the man wasn't actually _born_ old, or if he even remembers anything about what it _is_ to be in love. So, lamely, he says, "I'm not sure. I'm still assisting Mr. Harvey with some of the accounts he telegrammed me about. They're more complicated than expected."

"Hm. Well, we do worry for you. Taking off without much explanation, and all."

The rajah's face turns pink. "Yes, well... about that... I do promise to explain it all in due course, sir. Really, I do. I'm just not certain... _how_ to explain it."

"So I've been told," is the dry remark, though there is a bit of a smile in it, too. "But it would be nice if you're able to return home for the Easter holiday."

He smiles softly. "I'll see what I can do about that."

"In that case, two others wish to speak to you, while I have you on the line."

"Oh! Excellent, please put one of them on!" he eagerly requests.

A moment later, after the line crackles again, he hears a voice he has missed dreadfully.

"Oh, so it is you, is it? I'd wondered if the telegram telling Uncle Archie where to call was a joke! And on that note, I'm quite miffed at you, Colin Craven. You trusted my husband, and yet you didn't trust me? What on earth is going on?"

In the background, he hears a slight protest, and he can't help but laugh again at Mary's annoyance.

"Eh, nowt o' th' soart! I trust thee more 'en words can say, I'll warrant! Tha's a righ' piece o' work, tryin' t' wheedle things out o' thy husband when he's promised nowt t' tell a soul on my b'ha'. I promise t' tell thee soon enow, thy's my word o' honor!"

"Always the rajah, I see," she says coolly. "Fine then, you can talk to him, if you're still going to be secretive."

"Aw, come on, wait!"

Another voice comes on the line before he can continue his attempts to wheedle his cousin back into conversation. "Eh, tha won' get anymore out o' her; she's full o' fire at th' mom'nt an' thy'd better be glad tha's in th' States!"

"There're be fire enow when I return, tha's t' be sure! There's nowt t' be done a'out it."

"Tha walks a thin line sometimes, an' as tha friend it's my place t' tell thee such."

He chuckles. "Point taken."

"Is tha happy?"

"Aye, I am."

"Well, then. I look forward t' seein' thee again."

"I look forward t' seein' thee again, too. There's been many a time th' pas' couple o' weeks I've wished thee were here so I could ask thee a'out wha's on me mind. I try t' think o' thy voice, but it doesn' come t' me sometimes."

"Thy could ask me now," his friend suggests.

"Eh..." The rajah glances over his shoulder and realizes that Cece is standing only five feet away, staring at him in utter confusion. He smiles apologetically at her and says, "Eh, no' now. As thy told me once; sometimes thy learns best when thy doesn' 'ave a person t' ask th' questions an' get th' answers, but finds them for thysen."

"Aye, true enow. Mother, she's told me that many a time."

Mr. Harvey enters the foyer with a resigned expression and says to Cece, "Don't worry, dear. It's _Yorkshire_ dialect – I don't understand a word of it, either."

The rajah laughs again, and the voice on the other end of the line asks, "Wha's so funny?"

"Eh, but I forget when I talk t' thee! Mun folks donna understand broad Yorkshire an' here I am, speakin' as broad as I please! It mun sound confusin' t' a few people!"

"It sounds _extremely_ confusing," is the dry comment from the girl he's in love with.

Dickon says in his other ear, "Well, thy father wishes t' say goodbye t' thee, and thy should finish wit' thy accounts wit' Mr. Harvey."

Lord Craven comes back on the line a second later, and adds, "Thy'll let me know when thy comes home, m'boy?"

"Aye, I'll telegram thee as soon as I'm headed home, sir."

"Good. In that case, we'd best end the conversation before it becomes horribly expensive, I'd say."

"My money's vested well enough to cover a telephone conversation, I assure you."

"That, Colin, isn't the point."

"Yes, sir." He rolls his eyes.

"Take care of yourself. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, father."

He slowly puts the earpiece back into place, and he sighs wistfully as he thinks of his father, his cousin, and Dickon. He isn't one to get homesick, but he suddenly misses them terribly. And Misselthwaite, with all its gardens and hundreds of rooms and the wide moor, stretching on forever.

A gentle hand touches his arm, and he starts out of his thoughts. Cece is watching him sadly.

"You miss Yorkshire," she observes in a very quiet voice. One that can't be heard in the dining room.

"Aye. A bit," he murmurs, slipping into dialect as he glances back at the telephone.

"Colin, you don't have to stay –" she begins.

Immediately, his resolution hardens again. He smiles at her, lifts his hand, and slowly slips a loose curl behind her ear, his skin tingling all the way down his arm as he does so. "Yes. I do."

She hesitates, then whispers, "Thank you."

He is almost leaning towards her when he hears Mr. Harvey's footsteps, and he drops his arm as though burned, just before the man leans around the archway.

Mr. Harvey pauses, glances between them, and then says conversationally, "Breakfast is getting cold, Colin. Are you going to finish yours?"

"Yes, sir." Colin and Cece answer in nervous unison, and return to the dining room together to finish breakfast.


	49. Dress You Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece and Colin make an appearance in society in Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Madonna, released in 1984.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Dress You Up

****

She's twisting her program nervously between gloved fingers, eyes darting about the theatre. Her cheeks have been pink since they stepped out of the cab, giving her face a glow that completely outshines the sparkling necklace around her neck.

He leans over and breathes in her ear, "They're going to talk one way or the other. In a few weeks, they'll forget all about it. So there's no sense worrying over –"

" _Stop_ that!" she hisses, not daring to look at him. The blush across her cheeks deepens.

He grins, knowing she means that she doesn't want him whispering in her ear in such a public place. Then again, they _are_ in Boston now, and she knows many more people here then she did in England.

The reasons they're at the theatre (and surprisingly, without the Harveys), go back to four days previously when one of her friends called on her – someone named Jeannie, from what he gathered listening through the smaller door to the parlor from the back hall.

Jeannie had apparently been horrified to learn that Cece and Randolph were no longer engaged, to which Cece had scathingly replied that she'd never actually been engaged to Randolph at all. Perhaps it was the venom in Cece's voice, because Jeannie had seemed startled and insisted that she thought Cece was hopelessly in love with Randolph. Then, for some strange reason, she'd eagerly demanded to know whom Cece was _really_ in love with, if _not_ Randolph. Cece had tried to change the subject at that moment, but Jeannie hadn't budged and instead protested that Randolph had been in a foul mood for the past week (according to the other young men in their social circle), but just the day before he'd seemingly rallied his spirits and had escorted a wealthy heiress to the symphony. All of upper class Boston was suddenly talking about it, and everyone wanted to know why Cece hadn't been seen at all during the same week and what on earth was going on for Randolph to be escorting someone else, when he'd been attached to Cece Castor for years, now.

The girl never even noticed the bruise (though admittedly it was now faint and Cece had put powder over it that morning) on her friend's eye.

Then, the day after that, the doorbell had sounded and Colin, having just stepped into the entrance hall from the parlor, called out to Jamison that he would greet the guest since he was closest to the front vestibule.

The trouble was, when he opened the door, he came face to face with the one man in all of Boston whom he most certainly _didn't_ want to see. So, after a brief internal struggle, he opted to say nothing and deliberately blocked the door instead, reveling in the fact that he was a good four inches taller then Randolph. Randolph had looked him over angrily, before his face became calm and almost pleasant, though the niceties were definitely left off in his tone.

"I'm here to see Lucinda."

"And I'd love to run in the Olympics this summer, but that's not going to happen either."

Randolph, it transpired, greatly detested impudence (much to Colin's delight), and Cece had stamped her foot afterwards and said that it was exceedingly fortunate that Mr. Harvey and Jamison had come through the hall moments before the real fight (the _nonverbal_ one, she'd clarified heatedly) broke out. Colin's light remark that he would have won it (easily) did nothing to improve anyone's temper and he was explicitly made to promise not to go looking for trouble.

The next morning, Mr. Harvey had very nearly exploded when he opened the newspaper and read: _Mr. and Mrs. G. F. Johnson are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Miss Verity Johnson to Mr. Randolph Garrett..._

Jamison had almost dropped the coffee service, Cece merely stared and sputtered in disgust at the fact that he'd wasted so little time to find another woman to marry, Colin had rolled his eyes and said something nasty, Mrs. Harvey had remained sensible as always, and Mrs. Opal (a woman Colin had liked very much from the very start, and the other way around as well) could be heard in the kitchens all day, ranting like a lunatic about _exactly_ what she wanted to do to _Mr._ Garrett.

The end result of all of this had been the decision that it was now perfectly acceptable for Cece return to the public eye of Boston's social scene, and Colin and Mrs. Harvey had taken the opportunity to suggest to her that it would do her good to get out of the house for an evening. The theatre had finally been decided on, after much debate.

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye and he can't help but smile, because she's stunning in a long silk gown of silver. Her hair is twisted into a pale bun at the nape of her neck, with soft, popular finger-waves from her temples back, and he must clench his fingers in his lap to avoid the temptation of reaching out and touching a couple of loose tendrils.

"I just wish," she whispers out of the corner of her mouth, mostly in annoyance, "that everyone would stop _staring_ at us."

He leans over and murmurs in her ear again, letting his nose brush the shell. "They can't help it. You're beautiful."

She jumps slightly. "You _never_ listen, do you?"

"Not _never_. Just not _always_."

Her shoulders drop, showing her irritation, and she switches the subject back to their other topic. "They're staring because it's audacious that I would attend the theatre with another man so soon after breaking things off with Randolph. And worse, they've never even seen you before. I'll probably have fifteen callers tomorrow, demanding to know what's going on and who you are."

"Because I'm so handsome," he admits cheekily. "Do you want me in the parlor when they come?"

She turns and stares at him incredulously. "Do you even _listen_ to the nonsense you're always spouting off?"

"Never." He grins again.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

The lights dim and the theatre falls silent; in the dark, he takes the opportunity to lean in even closer, brushing against her bare shoulder, and whispers deliberately in her ear, "Why do you always tense up when I whisper to you, Cindy?"

He feels her body stiffen and hears the intake of breath. She sways just slightly and he places one hand against the small of her back – something he remembers wanting to do in London, and now he finally can. He can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the thin silk, and she jumps beneath his touch. But after a moment, she whispers back falteringly, "Figured out my name, have you?"

"Just one. You still haven't told me the other. And you haven't told me what you prefer to be called, either."

She pauses. "I'll think about it."

"Hm. Going to answer my first question, then?" His lips touch her ear when he speaks this time and he forces himself not to actually _kiss_ her ear, though it's very difficult.

To his surprise, she doesn't jump. Not exactly. Instead, she turns her head, her nose brushing his. This time, it is _his_ turn to tense at the soft, delicious contact. Their lips are incredibly close; just a breath apart. When he manages to refocus, he sees her smiling at him in the darkness. She's pleased that she has earned a reaction from him, instead of the other way around. She murmurs, barely audible, "Even if you've heard it before, I'll keep saying it. You're impossible, Colin Craven."

Before he can react, she's turned away from him and is watching the opening act, leaving him dizzy and dazed.


	50. Ahab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin makes a very difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the name of a band founded in 2004.
> 
> I will admit, when I first created Cece, and when I gave her father a stroke, this chapter was not in my head at all. I had no idea whatsoever that I would end up taking the story this way, but after I had Colin in Boston and Randolph out of the way, I realized I was going to have to address the issue in this chapter and the next chapter. It was definitely something I wanted to explore when I started thinking about it, and I will admit, Moby Dick is one of my favorite classic novels. Exploring this side of Colin was very intriguing to me.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Ahab

****

The house is quiet and dark, for it is after midnight, and the other inhabitants are surely asleep. Cece wishes she could drift off as well, but she hasn't been able to sleep for two nights, now.

Since the night she attended the theatre with Colin.

Sighing, she throws back the thick winter quilts and slides her feet to the floor and into her slippers. In the familiar darkness, she locates her dressing gown on her vanity chair and pulls it on, tying the sash loosely about her waist. There's no sense lying in bed wide-awake. Perhaps a book will help.

Just like when she was seven years old, she thinks. When her mother passed away after a horrible carriage accident. She had had such trouble falling asleep, and so only four days after the unexpected, devasting event, Cece had taken to slipping downstairs to her father's cozy library, swiping one of the thick volumes with pictures or one of the large books of maps, and lugging it into the parlor, where she would sit by the hearth and read by the dying fire until her eyes were too tired and her brain too confused to comprehend anything any longer. Then she would rise and put the book away so that no one would discover what she was up to, because she couldn't bear the thought of upsetting her father anymore then he already was.

It was Jamison who discovered her secret, a week later. Inevitably came the night when she fell asleep on the hearth with one of the books, and when the butler entered the room the next morning to start the fire, he found his little mistress shivering with cold and dozing fitfully in a tight ball.

She'd been terrified that her father would be furious with her, but he wasn't. When she was gently asked to explain herself, he had merely regarded her sadly at her trembling response, before hugging her close, and asking if she shouldn't like him to read to her every night instead. Thus began a much closer father-daughter relationship, as Xavier Castor read the classics to Cece every night beside the fire, until her head drooped onto his shoulder and he carried her upstairs to her bed. It also developed in Cece a love of literature and a keen mind, one that her father was immensely proud of as she grew older and her exam marks were consistently higher then her fellow classmates. The old gossips about Boston might remark that Xavier was an eccentric fellow to be putting so much time and effort into a young girl; he didn't listen to a word of it, and continued to encourage his daughter to read, to expand her horizons, and to broaden her dreams. She was his life after his wife's death, and nothing was too trivial to ensure Cindy's happiness.

Perhaps a book will help now, just as it helped then.

She makes her way through the upper halls, forcing herself not to peek into her father's bedchamber to ensure that he is sleeping soundly. She would never forgive herself if she woke him and deprived him of what little sleep he is able to get, due to his condition. So instead, she slips down the narrow back staircase until she reaches the back hall on the bottom floor.

She pauses, wondering which book to pull from the library. There are so many in the narrow, circular room, and she has no idea what she's in the mood to read. And so her mind drifts again, back to the real reason she is unable to sleep tonight. Not because of her father – _no_ , she thinks bitterly. The one reason she _shouldn't_ be able to sleep isn't the reason at all! She should be worried sick about her father's health, just like she was a month ago.

But a month ago, Colin wasn't here.

She sighs again, as she remembers how she _wished_ , back then, that Colin would arrive in Boston. Then everything would be better. And, in a way, it is. Colin takes her mind off of her father – off of the debilitating stroke that leaves him bedridden and unable to speak or move, off of Randolph's horrible transformation into a controlling, ugly monster, off of the stinging bruise that has finally faded and vanished, off of the endless accounts and estate paperwork that she has finally managed to sift through.

But the trouble is, having Colin around creates an entirely different problem. One she hadn't considered previously. Since her arrival in Boston three months ago, she found that she would go to sleep daydreaming about Colin: Colin confessing his love for her, kissing her (much more deeply then the chaste brush she gave him in London), holding her tightly, comforting her. Making Randolph furious with jealousy, or else making Randolph feel insufficient and worthless.

And perhaps Colin's presence has indeed infuriated Randolph, but that seems to be where her daydreams-to-reality end. Instead of any sort of confessions, she and Colin seem to be constantly dancing around each other – always coming close to admitting the truth and yet never quite making it to that point. Something or someone always interrupts their private moments, or, as in the case of the theatre, they were in too public a place to do anything more then flirt with each other something terrible.

She closes her eyes, reliving those lovely moments in the box at the theatre – how she'd felt dizzy and expectant each second of the play, to the point that she couldn't even really remember what had taken place upon the stage. All she knew was that Colin was sitting extremely close to her. He would lean over and whisper ridiculous, amusing antidotes in her ear, his lips only a breath from her skin. His palm had been hot against the small of her back a couple of different times, because she had dared not to wear a boned corset with the newer style of dress she'd boldly selected for the evening. He had deliberately created the delicious tension between them, to make certain that all of Boston would be twittering on about the two of them the next day. Even when they'd left the theatre, and descended the grand, wide stairs to the lobby, they had seen Randolph and his new fiancée, chatting with one of his many business associates – he had glanced up and seen them, and his jaw locked and his fist clenched and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Colin had whispered in her ear that he'd like nothing better then to thrash the bastard, which sent her into inappropriate giggles. Randolph's face turned a nasty, reddish-pink and she had snuggled a bit closer to Colin's side as they exited outside, and the cab ride home had been nothing short of hilarity as they recalled the older man's horrid expressions.

Her eyes flutter open and she sighs. Surely Colin wouldn't have done all of that, and so deliberately, if he didn't love her. He wasn't like Randolph.

It is then that she notices the flicker of light – just enough to make her stop and glance warily down the hall towards the parlor door. A thin, dim, shimmering line twinkles along the floor, revealing that the fire is burning much brighter then it should be for this time of night. In fact, it should be nothing more then dull embers, by now.

She slips down the hall and stops in front of the closed door, slowly grasps the glass knob and twists it soundlessly until she feels the latch shift. She presses it open a fraction; the line of light travels upward along the edge and after another inch she can see the far wall with its four floor-to-ceiling windows, the heavy drapes drawn to keep out the bitter cold, with the sideboard and two chairs between the sets. Another inch reveals the sofa in the center of the room, facing the fireplace against the opposite wall, and the front wall that faces the lawn, also with floor-to-ceiling windows and heavy, drawn drapes.

She can't help but smile, then.

Colin lies sprawled the length of the sofa on his stomach. One arm is beneath his head, while the other dangles off of the edge and onto the floor. Against the Persian rug lies an open book, forgotten in a state of drowsiness. His velvet smoking jacket is rumpled and she wonders that his feet aren't cold beneath the flannel pajamas that he wears. He almost looks like a young boy instead of a young man.

It briefly strikes her how awkward such a situation is. She shouldn't see Colin so less-than-formally attired, nor should he see _her_ in her dressing gown and nightdress! She should go back upstairs and forget the moment, and leave him be.

But... She _can't_ leave him to sleep on the sofa all night, where he'll have a sore neck come morning.

Hesitantly, she steps into the room and closes the door silently behind her, and pads across the floor until she is beside him, between him on the sofa, and the coffee table. She places her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't wake immediately, and her gaze lingers on his face, relaxed in sleep. His skin is smooth, chin and cheeks free of stubble, and she notes the angular line of his jaw and the shape of his nose and mouth. The way his hair falls across his forehead, his eyelashes. Lord, but she's never noticed how long his eyelashes are – almost feminine.

Coming back to herself, she shakes him slightly and whispers, "Colin? Colin, wake up."

A second passes, then two. Her heart seems to thud in time with the mantel clock. He stirs slightly, his eyes blink open, and he sees her standing beside him – her hair falling over her shoulder in wavy half-curls, completely down instead of pulled back or twisted up. The situation seems to dawn on him then, and he sits up almost too fast, looking stunned.

"Cindy! I... uh..."

Feeling as awkward as he looks, she stammers, "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to sleep there all night, or you'd have a wretched crick in your neck come morning, and..." She trails off, not certain what to say or do, now.

"No! No, thank you, I'm glad you did. I couldn't sleep, for some reason. I must have _just_ dozed off, seconds before you came in."

He looks quite embarrassed as he rubs his face and eyes, and she turns and moves towards the fire to keep him from noticing her blush. Trying to sound as though late-night rendezvous' are commonplace, and to put them both at ease, she says, "Me, either. I had the same idea you did, apparently. What were you reading?"

She glances back at him, and notices that his smile is a little crooked at her question.

" _Moby Dick_ ," he admits, rising from the sofa and depositing the book on the coffee table. "I've never read it before. Melville has an interesting style. I rather like it, I confess."

She fights back the giggle attempting to bubble through her chest. "Father always adored Melville," she admits sheepishly.

"He won't mind that I got this out of his library, will he? You did tell me I was free to go in there when I first arrived..." He sounds geniunely concerned.

"Goodness, no, of course he wouldn't mind." She turns back to the fire as she painfully remembers her father, lying upstairs. "He would want you to read it, especially if you never have. He'd want to discuss it with you, if he could. What your thoughts on Captain Ahab's internal struggles are."

He chuckles as he comes up beside her and leans an arm against the mantel, his own gaze falling to the fire. "I like Ahab. He's ambiguous. I think most of humanity is like that – no one is perfect, after all. Everyone has a dark part of themselves that usually remains hidden... Ahab just allows that part to surface in a situation where few people will see it and no one in the civilized world would believe it. I mean, who would believe, after all, that the whale has evolved a conscious and actually seeks revenge on whaling ships?"

"Good Lord, but you do sound just like father! I never much liked _Moby Dick_ , and he was forever trying to convinence me to give it a chance." She pauses, then whispers, "It was one of the only novels we didn't agree on, father and I."

Colin must have heard the choking sound in her voice, because he says, "I'm sure he'll be better soon. Don't give up."

She shakes her head. She doesn't want sympathy now; she just wants to be able to stand strong in the face of the inevitable. Taking a deep breath, she murmurs, "No. It's almost over."

"You don't know that," Colin points out gently. "He may be better tomorrow morning, even."

"No, I do know. That's just it." Cece wraps her arms around herself. "He's getting worse, not better. Each day that goes by, he loses a little more of himself. And I can't help but think how horrible it's going to be, for a man who enjoyed life so much, to die in a dark room, locked away from the world. He's been locked away nearly three and a half months, Colin! It's a wonder he's not passed away yet. I can't imagine being locked in a room for so long! I'll be thankful when he _does_ die, because it will mean he's finally free of his prison," she finishes bitterly.

A strange, prolonged silence follows this speech, and after a few quiet moments, the heaviness that has descended upon them unnerves her. She glances at Colin, only to discover that his expression is entirely unreadable for once. A young man whose moods are usually so clear upon his face, she thinks! His eyes glitter oddly as he stares into the fire, but at the same time they are miles away, it seems. His mouth is in a straight line, as though of temper, but his lips remain tightly closed. It is as if he is having an internal struggle with the part of him that never surfaces – the _Ahab_ of his soul, the _Colin_ that no one knows even exists beneath the cheerful, carefree exterior. A part that _she_ never really knew existed, until now. She remembers Randolph's transformation and she immediately feels cold and confused. His hand, resting on the mantel, clenches so hard that his knuckles turn white. She is just about to back up a step and apologize for whatever she said, when he finally turns his gaze to hers.

There is both wariness and grim resolution upon his features, and his hand drops off of the mantel to hang limply to his side. He straightens to his full height and takes a slow, deep breath.

In a quiet, low voice, he says, "Cindy... I have something... I need to tell you."


	51. Kryptonite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by 3 Doors Down, released in 2000.
> 
> This chapter is perhaps a bit more intense then I intended, but I've also discovered that when two people have been dancing about each other for months, falling in love and flirting like crazy for half of that time, and they suddenly find themselves in a situation where they're alone in the dark without any interruptions or adults stepping in to remind them not to be teenagers, that they tend to forget propriety.
> 
> That, and a bit of smutty fluff always seems to worm its way into my stories eventually.
> 
> The first line and second to the last line are directly from the original novel.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Kryptonite

****

_"I felt a lump – I felt it! I knew I should. I shall have a hunch on my back and then I shall die! Sh–show her! She–she'll see then!"_

He thought he had buried the past and moved forward. He hadn't realized that, like all parts of our lives, it lived within him still – hidden and locked away, yet ready to surface when he least expected it. Ready to surface at a vulnerable moment, when he didn't want to remember it at all.

She watches him, her expression cautious. It is as though she has seen his _Ahab_ rising like a stream of bubbles from the depths of the ocean to the chopping waves above.

"You might want to... sit down," he suggests, his voice still low.

She does as he asks, sinking slowly into one of the wingback chairs beside the fireplace, her eyes never leaving his face.

He looks back at the fire, crackling against the soot-blackened bricks and the iron grate, and after a long, tense moment, he starts, "There... there was once a boy who lived in Yorkshire, years ago. Everyone knew of him; he was the son of a wealthy man, and his mother had died shortly after he was born, quite unexpectedly. His father was so grief-stricken about losing his wife that he... well, he lost his mind, I suppose. It's the sort of story that no one can keep quiet, so we all knew of it." He sighs heavily and keeps his eyes on the flames. "After the wife died, the man was certain that his son was going to die too. You see... the father had a bad back – crooked, a bit. Not really a hunchback, but his shoulders were a little higher then usual and people talked of that, too. And he just knew his son would have the same problem, and would likely die without his mother. So he left the boy with the servants and a nurse, and... he escaped, you might say. Or he tried. He didn't really. No one can escape from something as awful as what he had experienced. He traveled; everywhere, so they said. Anywhere but Yorkshire. And while the father was away, the boy grew up believing he was going to die, because that's all the servants and the people in the area talked about around him, thinking he couldn't understand. So he remained locked up in a room for... ten years, I believe it was. Or nigh close to it. He was an invalid who hated everything and everyone."

He pauses, feeling momentarily drained at reliving those unhappy, black days. Like coils of twisting, dark water, the memories wind around his body, threatening to sufficate him. He takes a deep breath and remembers to focus.

After a couple of seconds, she muses indignantly, "But that's absolutely horrible! Why on earth would anyone try to _deliberately_ convinence a child of such _nonsense_? Why didn't anyone _do_ anything? Couldn't someone have gotten him out of there, and explained to him that he wasn't an invalid at all? It was entirely psychological!"

"Someone did get him out," he admits. The flames are glowing orange, making his face hot, and he welcomes the physical discomfort as a distraction. "Two people did, actually. They saved his life."

"Thank _goodness_ ," she says, almost vehemently. "I can't even _imagine_ anyone allowing such a thing to happen! It's...there aren't even words for it! If I could get my father out of his room, I would!"

She sounds upset that she can't, but Colin knows the situation is entirely different. Mr. Castor has had a stroke; an actual medical event that took place in old age. The chances of rehabilitation are slim in his case.

Dryly, he goes back to the topic at hand – the topic they need to finish. "The young boy was to blame as much as the servants and the father." He rests his hand on the mantel again as he shifts his weight and sighs. "He believed the nonsense, after all. And because he believed it, he wouldn't allow anyone to take him out of the room. He thought that if he went outside, he would die – if his back didn't kill him first. He was always thinking he had lumps on his back, or that his shoulders were deformed. He thought people would stare at him –"

"He isn't to blame at all," she argues. "What else was he supposed to think, hearing such stories day in and day out? At least the two people who got him out of there had sense! I never would have..." She trails off, and he glances at her. She is looking into the fire again, apparently thinking about her father, locked away in a room upstairs, dying. He can see the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over. She can't let her father out of his room, because he isn't strong enough to be moved, but she wishes she could.

"Yes," he consents, thinking about her previous statement. He turns his own gaze back to the fire. He can't look at her at this moment. The moment of truth. "They've the most sense in the world, I think," he whispers. "Their names are... Mary and Dickon."

His hand clenches on the mantel again; he hears the thick pause. A heartbeat. Then her slight intake of breath, as it dawns on her that...

He starts to talk again, simply because he can't bear to hear the horror in her voice if he allows her the chance to speak. "Mary had lost her parents," he plunges on. "They died of the cholera epidemic in India, and she was sent to live at Misselthwaite in 1911. I didn't even know she was there, at first. We were kept apart, because I _wouldn't_ have people look at me. I just knew they would talk about me if they _did_ , or else feel sorry for me. About how I was going to die, because I was so weak and had a bad back, and if I did live, how I was going to be hunched like father, only much worse. Mary heard me crying several times – I was always throwing the worst tantrums. It's a wonder all the screaming and thrashing about didn't kill me. I was a right bloody prat, putting my servants through such nightmares. It's a wonder they stayed on. And so, one night, Mary disobeyed her orders to stay in her own rooms, and she followed the crying until she found me. I remember thinking she was a ghost when she came into my bedroom! She and Dickon were already friends, and they decided the best thing would be to get me out of my room and into the garden. Anything to get my mind off dying. Because... dying was all I could think of. Constantly. So after I got used to the idea, we started to go out. Everyday. That's why the garden is so special. Why I talked of it so often in London, why I love it so much. It was the place I learned to _live_. I suppose we all learned to live there, because it really is a magical place. I learned to walk there, even. I had never walked until... until the first day Dickon and Mary took me to the garden. I had to be pushed about in a wheelchair if I went anywhere, before then. One of the servants, a man named Ben Weatherstaff, saw me and asked if my legs weren't crooked. It infuriated me so much that someone believed my legs were crooked like my back, that I made Dickon help me stand. I'd never stood before that moment in my life, because I'd been locked up for ten years. So I suppose I know how you feel about your father, because I've been there. It is horrible, but in his case, there is little that can be done for him. It isn't something in his head, like my illness was."

The pause that follows the end of the story is so long that he almost wishes the floor would open up and he would drop through...or perhaps he'll wake up in bed and discover it is all a dream, that he hasn't told her a word of his past.

Then, she says softly, "You've never told anyone, have you? Outside of those that know in Yorkshire, I mean."

He shakes his head a fraction, his eyes watering from the heat of the fire and the intensity of the golden-orange color. "It's not exactly something I want people to know about me," he responds shortly.

She falls silent again, and he finds that he cannot stand any longer. So he sinks into the other wingback chair beside the fire and allows his shoulders to slump. As though a weight has fallen off of them...or on them – he isn't certain which. She must think him a horrible person for having never told her before. Worse, he feels like the invalid he once was. What if she doesn't want him, now?

Thoughtfully, though in a small voice, she suddenly breaks his worries. "Do you resent your father?"

He smiles for a fraction of a second, mostly out of weariness. "No. Father lived his own Hell for those ten years. I would not wish him to continue living it. Not now. In a way, his was far worse then mine. I was locked in a room – he was locked in memories. He couldn't escape them; I did escape my room, with Mary and Dickon's help."

"Does... Do Mr. and Mrs. Harvey know?"

"No. We told no one outside of those who already knew. Some people knew father had a son," he admits, "but no one asked questions and the servants at Misselthwaite were under orders not to talk. Mary and Dickon knew how important it was that I start living normally, without reminders of the past. After the garden made me well, I began to live and play and learn like any other boy. By the time I was entering society in London, no one thought it strange that I had been a mystery for the first ten years of my life. They just assumed I had grown up under the care of a nurse and a governess in Yorkshire, while father traveled, and that was the end of it. No one knew I had been an utter invalid all those years, or that it was a wonder I survived at all."

He doesn't ask her not to tell the Harveys – he knows she won't.

"Is there anything else I should know about you that I don't?"

He opens his eyes and finds that she is watching him closely, with a mixture of annoyance and wariness still on her face. The worry gnaws at his chest again, and he murmurs, "Not that I can think of, at the moment."

"Good." She rises from her chair and crosses to him. Her expression is resolute, now. "Because I don't want you to keep secrets from me. I don't like it. I want you to be able to... to trust me. To tell me anything."

"If I wanted to keep secrets from you," he responds quietly, "I wouldn't have told you the truth."

"Stand up for a moment, will you?"

He arches an eyebrow quizzically at her, but nervously does as she asks. He pushes out of the chair, realizing for perhaps the first time just how much taller he is then her. Especially now, when she's only wearing flat slippers and they're both in nightclothes and dressing gowns. He'd never have dreamed he would be so tall when he was a child.

She tilts her head slightly, and then crosses her arms and says loftily, "If I may say so, there's not a lump anywhere on your body, except muscle, and your shoulders look perfectly normal to me, Colin Craven."

He can't help it – he bursts into quiet laughter. She almost sounds like Mary – not quite as demanding, but very similiar. Her eyes widen at the unexpected response and she quickly clamps her hand over his mouth while trying not to grin herself.

"Stop," she insists softly, "or you'll wake the entire house! I was teasing! Good Lord, if Mrs. Opal catches you in here with me at one-thirty in the morning, she'll skin you alive, no matter how much she likes you!"

He takes her wrist and pulls her hand away from his mouth, while wrapping his other arm around her waist. "You're the one who walked in on me!" he reminds her.

"You're the one who came down here to read!" she complains.

"As did you!" He lets go of her wrist and puts both arms around her waist.

Her hands fall to his chest and she sighs, but smiles at the familiarity of their banter. It is then that he suddenly realizes the position they're in – a position that they just sort of...fell into. He swallows as his body seems to instantly react; he meets her eyes and her smile fades slightly as she realizes it, too.

For a moment, panic rises in him. He's never done this before and, oh God, what if he gets it all wrong? He finds he can't seem to take a deep breath, or even really breathe at all. They were closer then this at the theatre when he was _hoping_ he could kiss her and _didn't_ because they were in a public place, and yet, this time is _real_ , when he wants to kiss her and is terrified to do so.

Perhaps it is that which strikes him full force – _this is real_. _This_ , in the middle of the night, with all the flirtations and formalities stripped away, dressed in nothing more then dressing gowns and barefoot in front of a low fire, without the prying eyes of anyone who would judge or whisper. There aren't any fancy clothes or glittering jewelry or pocket watches or accounts and ledgers or tea services or demands.

He wonders if this is what standing on a ledge is like.

Slowly, he lifts one hand and hesitantly cups her cheek, then the back of her neck. She seems to shift slightly, but her hands come up from his chest and her fingertips graze his jaw. Like an invisible line pulling him downwards.

His eyelids flutter closed as they shift to each other, as they come within a breath apart. He feels a slight brush, like electricity humming in his veins, then more insistent as his lips touch hers again, a little more then the nervous first second, and somehow, in that moment, he finds that he knew how to do it all along. He instinctively pulls her closer and barely hears the soft moan in her throat, but becomes intensely aware that of one of her hands has tangled firmly in the short hair on his neck while the other grips at his smoking jacket in an attempt to anchor herself. Her entire body seems to mold up against his and her mouth opens slightly against his, all soft and pliant.

In that one moment, when her mouth opens and their tongues seem to flicker out, it is as though a flash occurs; the electricity in his blood turns to fire and he drops his hand to her waist again, to keep her tight against him, because _God help him_ , he needs to devour her whole. It is as though they can't get close enough, can't get deep enough. Both of her hands work into his hair to hold him in place, almost massaging his scalp. She keeps his mouth fused with hers, and he hopes they can both live without oxygen for a while.

He has no idea how long they stand there, in front of the fire, going from kiss to kiss and learning and touching and tasting and feeling and pressing against each other – but when the clock chimes two o'clock, he realizes that the fire is practically dead, except for the red glow of a few embers in the blackness. Still, unable to stop himself, he kisses her again; full and damp, sucking on her lower lip for a second and hoping there's a hell of a lot more to learn about it, because he's never wanted to learn so badly in his life.

"We... need to... to go to bed. It's late." His voice is hoarse, thick, almost dream-like. Yet he keeps touching her, tracing her cheeks with his fingers, bending to kiss her neck while she wraps herself about him and holds him close.

"To bed, yes. But not together," she whispers.

He chuckles breathlessly, silently, and rubs his palms flat down her back. "No. Not yet, I suppose."

She pauses, then murmurs in a fluttering way, "I look forward to that day, though."

His hands fall still at the base of her back, dangerously low, and he slips into Yorkshire dialect. " _Aye_. So do I, lass."

Before he realizes it, she slips out of his grasp and back a few steps. He feels immediately cold, and sighs in resignation. They really shouldn't be in a dark parlor in the middle of the night, alone. She holds her hand out and says in the darkness, "Come on, then." She is trying to sound nonchalant and can't quite manage it. "If we don't get any sleep, the Harveys will wonder in the morning, and I'm not certain I want to explain it to them just yet."

And so he sighs and takes her hand, and allows her to lead him back upstairs, down the silent upper hall, because she's right. But just before they part ways, she leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth before flitting away from him a second time. He hears her whisper, "Good night, Colin."

Colin watches through the darkness as her bedroom door gently closes, and after a long moment he slips back in to his bedroom. As he crawls beneath the thick, warm quilts, he remembers another moment of his life – another wonderful moment that remains etched in his memory as a defense against all of the bad ones.

_"I shall get well! I shall get well! Mary! Dickon! I shall get well! And I shall live forever and ever and ever!"_

Cece hasn't left him for who he is, and he hopes his heart won't burst from the joy of it.


	52. Take Good Care of My Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin meets Xavier Castor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Bobby Vee, released in 1968.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Take Good Care of My Baby

****

It isn't as though they can escape for hours at a time, though he wishes they could. The little time they do spend alone together isn't nearly enough to do half of the things that go through his head during the rest of the day. And even then, he hardly gets a chance to physically explore, for all the questions she wants to ask.

To his amazement, it is much easier to talk to her about his past, now that it's off of his shoulders (literally, he thinks with wry amusement).

She listens to his stories in sincerity and thoughtfulness, and inevitably, when he becomes a bit moody about his childhood prior to the garden, she smiles and kisses him, and then he forgets to be moody at all. It's really exhilarating the way his blood heats, he thinks. It reminds him of when he stood to defy Ben, or when he sank his fingers into a baby lamb's soft wool for the first time, or when he burst through the garden door and ran headlong into his father. Only better.

But a few days after their fireside chat, he is reminded again that he is a man, and not a child or even a teenager. And he must act like a man.

Cece and Mrs. Harvey have stepped out for the morning, much to Colin's annoyance. It means that he will have to spend the day amusing himself until Cece returns, and even then they may not have a chance to steal away for a few moments without arousing suspicion. But as he contemplates what to do with himself, Mr. Harvey calls him into the library for a bit of a chat.

And he knows, just simply stepping into the room, that this will be a serious conversation and not one of light-hearted nothings. Because Mr. Harvey (never one for preamble), waits only for the door to shut behind him, before he says briskly, "Are you in love with Cece, Colin?"

A jolt of defiance makes Colin frown; perhaps he should have expected the question, but hearing it in the open makes him wary. He answers affirmatively, his chin slightly tilted and his shoulders straight, and waits.

Mr. Harvey can't help but smile at the reaction. "Now, now," he says, clearly amused. "There's no reason to get defensive. It isn't as though the entire world saw it coming from a mile off."

Colin twitches, but doesn't answer. Exactly what _should_ he say to this? The conversation isn't one in which he has much to go on, yet. There's something more serious lurking beneath the surface than just his affection for Cece; he can tell.

Mr. Harvey continues, "But... Despite that, you're both very young, Colin. I assume you've thought about the future?"

"Yes, sir." God knows he's thought plenty about the future – usually while laying awake at night, tossing and turning and daydreaming to no end.

"And?" Mr. Harvey's eyebrows lift.

Colin shrugs and slides his hands in his trouser pockets. "I suppose a good deal of the future has yet to be determined, hasn't it? Mr. Castor's health is the main priority at the moment. It would be callous to act further on my wishes, while her father is dying."

Mr. Harvey glances towards the narrow, thick windows on one side of the circular room. They overlook the side lawn, a wilder piece of property then the neatly manicured front of the house. "Yes and no," he muses slowly. "He's worried about her, you know."

It is Colin's turn to lift his eyebrows. "I didn't think he had the ability to speak, sir."

"He doesn't. But that doesn't mean he can't comprehend. I've sat with him quite a bit, and I relay what is taking place here, of course. As Cece has explained to you – he communicates by squeezing your hand, giving yes or no answers. I sometimes must go through various scenarios to obtain his real feelings, and it can take a couple of hours, depending on the discussion. It is frustrating for him, but the only way to exchange ideas now." Mr. Harvey's expression is shrewd. "Naturally, he wishes to meet you, Colin. Before he passes away. Which he and I both believe will be very soon."

An unexplainable panic rises within Colin's chest, but he has no grounds to refuse a dying man's wishes and the panic is, in itself, ridiculous. But in some ways, he has no desire to meet Mr. Castor, though he can't explain why. The man has, thus far, been an unseen entity in his life. Never interfering as most fathers would. He's grown accustomed to the lack of physical presence.

"How much does he know?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Everything that I know. He knows that Randolph struck her and tried to take the bank holdings and the power of attorney. He knows I've filed reports on the same. He knows that you came when I requested you, without hesitation, and he knows that you and Cece are quite literally mad about each other. He trusts my judgment in you, but he is still concerned because he doesn't know you personally. He thought he knew Randolph, and Randolph turned out to be nothing as to what he presented. I have assured him that you are nothing like Randolph, but Xavier is still concerned, of course. Cece is _his _main priority, and he sees now that _her_ main priority is shifting from him to you. That is not a bad thing, and he wants her to be well taken care of after he passes. So he desires to meet you for himself."__

__"What if he doesn't like me?"_ _

__"I don't think that will be of any concern." Mr. Harvey smiles. "We might as well get it over with."_ _

__" _Now_?"_ _

__"Yes, I think so. We don't have much time left, and as the ladies are out this morning, it will be as good a time as any. I'll walk you up."_ _

__The panic within him threatens to bubble over as they make their way upstairs to Mr. Castor's bedchambers. He thinks of his own father and his gut twists. For the first time since he arrived, it truly occurs to him how Cece must feel about losing this man – the only man she's ever loved in her life, until she met Colin. When they stop in front of the door, he realizes his palms are sweaty and he feels clammy. Mr. Harvey knocks softly and a moment later the nurse appears to usher them inside. Mr. Harvey gives her permission to go downstairs for some tea, and then nods to Colin._ _

__They step into the room and, for the first time, Colin lays eyes upon Cece's father._ _

__He was a man of medium height and build (judging from the shape beneath the blankets), not overweight but not thin, not young but not ancient. His hair and mustache are more gray then brown; his eyes once likely sparkled. Now they seem fixed and glazed, due to the stroke's paralysis. It is a strange sight and Colin can't help but suppress a shudder. He would never, ever want to end up like this._ _

__Mr. Harvey goes to the bedside and touches the man's hand, which lies upon the blankets._ _

__"Xavier? I've brought you a visitor. Do you feel up to it this morning?"_ _

__Colin steps to the foot of the bed so that Mr. Castor can see him properly in the dim light. The man's eyes flicker to him and yet nothing else moves; his body does not move and his face does not move, and Colin feels slightly ill and faint._ _

__"Colin?" Mr. Harvey nods for him to come to the side of the bed and take a seat, where he can hold Mr. Castor's hand. "Remember – one squeeze is no, two means yes. Xavier, I'll return in a bit, if that is satisfactory?"_ _

__Colin watches as the man's fingers close slightly on Mr. Harvey's twice, in _agonizingly slow repetition_._ _

__And so, seconds later, he finds himself seated beside the bed, alone with Cece's father as the door closes behind Mr. Harvey. Nervously, he takes the man's hand in his sweaty one, and feels the slight pressure twice upon his slender fingers as the man's eyes slide slowly to Colin's face, without his head moving in the least._ _

__Swallowing, Colin says thickly, "Sir, my name is Colin Craven. And... Well... I'm in love with your daughter, actually."_ _

__It is exceedingly strange how his story pours forth – who he is, who his father is, about his first ten years of life, about his education and his friends, about his love of Yorkshire and his love of travel, about his business investments despite his young age, about how he met Cece in London, about their friendship and now their romantic involvement. There is no hesitation, as he'd felt when telling Cece about his childhood. He bears his soul to Xavier Castor, going far past the few minutes Mr. Harvey had suggested, without realizing it in the least. Mr. Castor squeezes his hand twice occasionally, encouraging him to continue, and when he at last finishes, by telling the man how he boarded a liner and crossed the Atlantic to find Cindy again, he whispers, "Don't suppose I came all this way for a schoolboy's lark, sir. I wish to marry her, but I won't do so without your permission. I should like to ask for it now, if I may."_ _

__The pressure upon his hand is harder this time then any of the previous: two tight squeezes in succession._ _

__Colin closes his eyes and sighs heavily. "I will take care of her sir, I promise. I know I am young, but I _can_ take care of her."_ _

__He feels the pressure twice more, an agreement._ _

__"Do you wish for anyone else to marry her?" Colin can't help but ask it, and he feels only one squeeze for the first time in an hour._ _

__He nods. "Thank you, sir. And now... I fear I've taken far too much of your time. You need your rest. She's quite worried for you. It eats away at her and I don't know that I can do anything to prevent that, except... Except to simply be there when she needs me. I shall leave you now, if you wish it."_ _

__Two squeezes, slow and encouraging. He almost thinks the man smiles at him, but it must be a trick of the light, for the muscles in his face won't allow him to move._ _

__And slowly, Colin leaves, feeling drained and exhausted. Mr. Harvey is not in the hall, and he meets the nurse on the stairs. She says not a word, but returns to her post dutifully, leaving Colin to make his way to his own bedchamber and fall into one of the chairs by a window. He suddenly yearns to return to Yorkshire, and decides to call his father, no matter the late hour in England. It will be nice to hear the man's voice, even though he has no idea what he's going to say, or if he can tell Archibald Craven about Cindy, yet._ _


	53. The Rain, the Park, and Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece attend Xavier Castor's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Cowsills, released in 1967.
> 
> ~BD

****

## The Rain, the Park, and Other Things

****

_2 March 1920_

He cannot seem to focus.

The pastor's words are only a low monotone murmur, muffled by the hundreds of lichen-encrusted headstones and monuments spread out around them. The cemetery dates to the early days of Boston's founding, as evidenced by the cold numbers and names from every angle.

He briefly considers the irony in the fact that he, an Englishman, fell in love with a girl who traces her heritage to ancestors that proudly and mutinously threw tea into their harbor to defy King George the Third and ignite a revolution for independence from the Crown.

Of course, he may have likely done the same thing had he been in the position they were in. He certainly threw enough objects at his servants when he was a child, at any rate.

On the other hand, it was just a miniscule tax against tea, for God's sake.

A rumble of thunder from the hanging gray clouds drowns the pastor's words completely for a few seconds. Not that it matters, Colin thinks dully, for such speeches are often very similar. At a funeral, it would be unheard of to talk of anyone's negative aspects. People only ever praise the deceased – how many friends the person had, what church they patronized, how good they were, how everyone will miss them. He remembers the same sorts of words at Phil and Bennie's funerals, despite the fact that the two Sowerby boys were from a very different background than Xavier Castor.

To try and take his mind off of the funeral itself, he glances warily behind him towards the iron gates that lead out to the road, where a line of parked cabs waits for the conclusion of the somber event. Colin himself is waiting for the same moment: eager for it, desperate for it, even. The desire to escape this place is overwhelming – not because he dislikes the cemetery, or even the sight of the dark coffin waiting to be lowered into the frozen ground. Not because the heavy scent of damp cold in the air makes his lungs burn slightly, or because he can't put his arm around Cece in public because he hasn't officially proposed to her yet.

It is an unsettled feeling, as though something is about to happen, something he can't quite put his finger on, and he dislikes it. Colin Craven needs to be in charge, after all. He shifts slightly and looks back at the coffin; the pastor is completing the eulogy and, all around him, men and women are respectfully bowing their heads.

He steals a quick look at her from beneath his lashes; she stands erect, with her shoulders back and her chin up, gazing sadly at the coffin with an air of regality and calmness that a lot of women would not possess in such a situation. He can see traces of dampness on her cheeks – she is not crying openly, but cannot help one or two tears escaping. He reaches out and gently takes her hand. She does not look at him, but slowly twines her fingers with his until they are thoroughly tangled.

A chorus of voices say Amen and Colin straightens, trying to rearrange his expression to one of passive blankness. One by one, the mourners pass Cece and offer murmured condolences, the women sniffling and dabbing handkerchiefs to their noses and eyes in a dainty fashion while the men touch their hats solemnly. The Harveys politely thank those who came to offer support, and Colin watches as the people slowly gather on the pavement beyond the cemetery gates. The ladies quickly slide into the waiting vehicles while the men look up at the sky and comment about impending rain, or else discuss their luncheon plans. When Mr. Harvey clears his throat and Cece tugs slightly on his hand, he realizes that all of the people who have come are now outside the gates, and it is time for them to leave as well. He releases her fingers to place his palm against her back and guide her out of this place, ready to return to the Castor Mansion.

They are just at the car and he has just opened the door when, out of nowhere, the one person he has been dreading, appears. Colin stiffens and protectively shifts to block Cece, as though the car door won't do it alone. Mr. Harvey is instantly there as well, determined to assist (or to make certain Colin doesn't do anything rash).

Randolph is wearing dark gray and looks pasty for it; the low clouds do nothing to help his foreboding appearance. Before anyone can say anything to him, he says in a formal, clipped voice, "I came to give my regards to Lucinda for her loss."

"The sentiment is noted, I am sure," Mr. Harvey responds coldly, before Colin can say something sarcastic.

"If there is anything I can do..." Randolph trails off, his eyes flickering to Cece.

Colin follows his gaze and notes both the fear and determination in Cece's eyes. Deciding it would be better to let Mr. Harvey deal with this problem, he slides into the car after her. Mr. Harvey shuts the door quickly, and Colin sharply tells the driver to get a move on.

Even as the car pulls away from the curb, Randolph makes a jerking movement as though he would like nothing more then to pull the door open and talk to Cece directly. But he doesn't actually reach out, and the car is gathering speed while Mr. Harvey smoothly handles the situation.

Colin sighs and puts an arm around her, and she curls into him and grips his lapel.

"I hate him," she whispers.

"I know." He exhales again.

"He scares me."

"I know that, too. But you said it yourself – I can't do anything to him physically," he chides playfully.

She smiles slightly against his coat. "No. You can't. But we _can_ leave Boston."

For a second, the world falls away from him and his heartbeat skips. _Leave Boston? Alone? With her?_ Trying not to sound eager and panicked all at the same time, he says, "But the will hasn't even been probated. And what about all of the business accounts that will have to be settled? Just because we've straightened them out doesn't mean they're complete."

"Mr. Harvey can see to those things." Her voice is small and she sounds as though she hates to be so selfish. "I just want to get away from here for a while. I want to forget the past four months. Is that so awful of me?"

He presses his lips to her hair, not in a kiss per-se, but affectionately just the same. "No more selfish than me throwing pillows at my servants. I'll see what I can come up with."

She sighs and snuggles deeper into his body. "Thank you."


	54. Where My Heart Will Take Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece and Colin elope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the theme song to "Enterprise".
> 
> For the record, I had three totally different ideas on how to write the next portion of the story. The original eventually won out, after much internal debate over which one was the most "in character". I liked this one best and it cut out a lot of boring fillers, which would include the boring, rational advice of Mr. Harvey and a more sedate story line. Colin has always struck me as hot-headed and determined, after all.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Where My Heart Will Take Me

****

Through the early morning fog, the liner's whistle sounds long and sharp, and she gazes out across the wharves of Boston with a surge of familiarity.

_When she was a little girl, her father would sometimes bring her to the wharves to watch the ships coming and going, and would point out the merchant ships versus the little fishing boats versus the huge liners. She had always loved the big liners in particular; the way they dominated the horizon and the long piers with their smokestacks and massive outlines._

"You know, I do believe it _still_ smells of tea," her companion complains.

She laughs, for she cannot help it; then she tosses her head and says proudly, "Of course it does. Boston Harbor will _always_ smell of tea."

A ludicrous statement, yes. Because Boston Harbor does _not_ smell of tea and they will never stop teasing each other, even if they live to be a hundred. She suddenly and anxiously wonders, yet again, what the Harveys will say when they discover the note the two of them left on the dining table. It isn't even dawn, yet. By the time the Harveys discover the little piece of paper, it will be far too late.

Perhaps her companion notices the way her hands clenched on the railing, or the way her smile has slowly faded, for he touches her shoulder and says quietly, "Do you want to go back? We still have time."

The whistle sounds again, cutting him off, and she shakes her head. He has misgivings about this decision, just as she does, but the overwhelming desire to be _together_ seems to cancel out all the anxiety in the end. It will all work out eventually, after all. The Harveys won't be angry – probably just shocked – and even _that_ will only last a little while before they calm down and rationalize their charges' decision.

"We've come this far, haven't we?" she reminds him softly, holding her left hand up. Two rings – one a plain gold band and the other set with a large diamond – glitter even in the darkness of early morning.

He wraps his fingers around hers and kisses her wrist. "Mr. Harvey's going to kill me," he sighs, his breath tingling against her cold skin.

Her smile fades a second time. "He has enough to worry about. Besides, it was partly his idea. And partly mine. So he can't blame you at all."

That is true enough. It was Mr. Harvey who mused that it would probably be best if she were removed from Boston for a couple of months, while he handled the probation of the will in her place. Randolph's odd appearance at her father's funeral two days before left them all with an unpleasant aftertaste, and if he was daring enough to show his face in public, despite the fact that he's supposedly engaged to another woman, then there is no telling what he will do next. And she doesn't want to be around when he reappears.

There is a sudden, slight lurch as the tugs begin to drag the liner away from the docks, and she relishes the whip of stinging air on her face. It takes her mind off Randolph and how sick he makes her feel.

"Where are we going?" she asks, ready to think of something else. Strange that she doesn't know where they are going, but then again, she let her companion buy the tickets and the rings, while she was packing their collective trunks the day before. Their wedding had been nothing short of a complete secret; they'd left under the pretense of seeing a motion picture the previous evening, and instead went to the nearby parish and explained everything to the middle-aged, Methodist pastor. He had been hesitant at first, but finally agreed to perform the ceremony with his wife as their witness, and they'd returned to home only to hurry off to bed in separate bedrooms (feigning tiredness and promising to tell everyone about the motion picture the next morning), having previously agreed that to try and consummate their marriage with the Harveys and Jamison and Mrs. Opal in the same house would likely result in chaos. They'd even taken their rings off before they entered to house, to avoid detection. Then, at five o'clock in the morning, they'd woken and silently slipped out the back way into the darkness, their trucks having already been sent on to the docks the afternoon before. A hired cab met them at the corner to take them to their destination.

His smile becomes mischievous. "I thought I'd wait and let you find out when we get there."

She turns and gapes at him, before lightly pushing his shoulder. "Oh, but that would be just like you!" she cries, incredibly frustrated and yet incredibly excited at the same time. "England?" She knows she must sound hopeful; she has wanted to see Misselthwaite for some time now, and to meet his father and two closest friends.

"Actually, no." The smile deepens in his eyes. "Don't try to guess, you never will."

When she huffs, he laughs and adds, "Honestly, Cin. You told me a night ago that you wanted to leave straightaway, and I was sort of at the mercy of the timetables! I had to pick whatever sounded best, and there wasn't a lot to choose from! The next liner leaving for England was tomorrow, so we're on this one instead, since you _insisted_ on leaving today. I do hope you like the destination. I know I do, I've been there before."

She shakes her head and sighs, before slipping her arm into his. "I suppose it's just as well," she remarks. "And it wasn't as though I didn't know what I was getting myself in to."

The docks are receding, the tugs have almost reached the point where the ropes will be removed and they will be sailing under their own power. The Atlantic spreads out before them, a vast expanse of gray-black water and fog, and she is glad of it. She wants to feel light, again. She wants to feel like her father's daughter, again. She wants to forget the sadness and anxiety of the past few months. She wants to be Cindy Chloe Castor _Craven_ , traveling and expanding her mind. Her father would want that.

After a few moments, her husband says, "I'm starving. Do you want breakfast?"

And she laughs at such a blasé statement, grateful that she _can_ laugh. Perhaps breakfast is the most important of their worries, and that makes her feel wonderful. She leans her head on his shoulder.

"Yes! Breakfast does sound good."

They make their way back inside the ship, and when they reach a deserted corridor, she takes the opportunity to rise to her toes and kiss him pliantly on the mouth. Their last kiss was lightening-fast in the church, for they had both been nervous and worried and neither had wanted to act too eager in front of a man of the clergy and his tight-lipped, narrow-eyed wife.

Almost immediately, he melts eagerly into her, his arms snaking around her waist and his mouth opening to hers. Her clothing suddenly feels overly warm and she realizes she's tugging at his cravat, and she can feel his hands opening her coat and slipping inside.

Just as his fingers brush her ribs, she manages to break the kiss before things go any further, and asks suspiciously, "You did just book one room, didn't you?"

His forehead rests against hers and his hands fall to her hips. "Why on earth would I book two? Bloody waste of money, that'd be."

She can see the unfiltered lust in his eyes, because she feels it within her chest and knows what it's like. Still, there is a time and a place for such things, and she says in a resigned sort of voice, "Well, after breakfast, I think we both need to get some sleep, first."

His expression changes slightly, becoming one of disappointment. She can tell he has other ideas. Gently, she reminds him, "I didn't sleep well last night, Colin."

"Neither did I," he admits. As though it wouldn't stop him in the least, the second they reach their room and lock the door behind them.

"Oh, do come on." She links her arm into his again. "We can discuss it after breakfast."

And as they make their way to the dining room, she can't help but glance down at _his_ left hand, and she smiles as his own ring glints in the lights in the corridor.


	55. Cara Mia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece mess around (read: have sex) on their way to their honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Jay & The Americans, released in 1965.
> 
> The sexual implication is completely there and very heavy. I'm hoping it's no worse then Mary and Dickon's "wedding night" chapter, and let's face it, most 19-year-olds are pretty eager.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Cara Mia

****

He has been shattered. The pieces lie scattered, mixed up and jumbled – for she has been shattered too. They shattered each other, he supposes, and he cannot create any sort of scientific explanation for it. Nor is there any possible way to put themselves back together the way they were an hour ago, for nothing is the same now. And yet, everything is infinitely _better_ , because they _have_ been broken.

The muscles in his forearms and his biceps protest against his position and weight, but he cannot shift just yet – he can't collapse on top of her. She's much more delicate then he is. All soft and cream and warmth, slender and supple. They fit together like interlocking pieces.

In the semi-darkness, she traces her fingertip across his slick collarbone and down his sternum: a silent thank you for not falling on her, before she cups the back of his damp neck and kisses him sweetly several times and makes him forget the fatigue altogether. He inhales as she kisses him, desperate for oxygen or maybe for none at all, and as soon as her lips move on to his neck, he buries his face against the crook of her shoulder, and sinks against her slowly so as not to crush her.

Surprisingly, she doesn't physically break beneath him – it is souls that have shattered, not bodies, he thinks distantly. And then the thought is immediately dispelled; apparently happy, she cradles him, twining herself around him similarly to how she had done earlier.

Not for the first time this hour, he feels a momentary panic. In a hoarse, panting whisper, he asks if he hurt her. He couldn't bear the thought that he hurt her – physically or mentally or anything else – but he isn't stupid, because he's read the dull and boring facts about it when he took Biology and _God_ , this was _nothing_ like the texts.

She continues to kiss him – slow, lazy kisses that brush everywhere – as though she's too sleepy to reawaken the lustful intensity that started everything an hour ago, when they woke up together from their much-needed nap and realized they were fully dressed, tousled, and lying in the same bed together, and that they were both quite refreshed.

She murmurs that she's perfectly fine. Perfectly happy. _His_.

"Are you _sure_ I didn't hurt you?" His brow furrows slightly.

"Positive." She rubs her arms and hands over him again, as though memorizing the planes of his chest and arms. As though she hasn't already.

He shudders at the contact and tries to refocus. "But are you _sure_? I mean, I'd read once that it... that it might hurt for a girl. And I've never..." He trails off, unsure how to admit that. As if she didn't already know. He anxiously worries that maybe he did it all wrong.

She giggles. "Neither have I, you know! But..." She grows serious and meets his eyes. "I wanted it that way. With you." She places another warm, full kiss on his upper lip and he bites back a moan. "Besides, I think we have plenty of time to practice. It's me that probably wasn't all that great." Her voice trails off nervously and she diverts her gaze.

He quickly squeezes her to him, shifting so that he's lying on his side and she can curl up into his body, his arms protectively around her. "Don't _ever_ think that! You're bloody amazing. It's me that..." His face flushes suddenly and he stammers, "Well, I'm not sure I really..."

She cuts him off and nuzzles his chest with her nose. "You aren't going to hate me from now on, are you?"

"God, no! I could never hate you. I'm mad about you. I can't get enough of you. As you say, practice makes perfect." He grins a little.

"And I'm just as mad about you." She presses a little closer, all soft and luxurious, and he can't help groaning a little. She breathes suddenly, "I don't think it gets better than this, do you?"

"Definitely not," he finally manages, his voice slightly choked.

A long silent pause follows this awkward conversation, before she whispers softly, "How long until we reach wherever it is we're going?"

He tries to think about something other then the way her body is all perfect against his. "About four days."

"Good. I think I like this state room. And if it's cool out, there's no sense going on deck."

"None at all." His hands are roaming slowly down her back. "That's why I love you – you've got the best sense in the world. Intelligent... Witty... _And_ you're a stunner... I mean, could I have lucked up even more?"

"Well, if you keep that up..." She arches into his hands, bracing her palms against his shoulders.

"Yeah?"

Laughing, she adds, "Sound a bit more hopeful, why don't you?"

"I can." He smirks. "If that wasn't hopeful enough."

She props up and kisses him again, her hair tickling his chest, shoulder, and arm. Not that he minds; he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of kissing her, actually. And he doesn't even care that her hair tickles. It's soft and silky like the rest of her.

When they finally break apart, she asks seriously, "Should we go up for dinner, or order to the room?"

"That's a hard decision. I suppose it depends on if you want to get dressed up or not."

"I'm not sure. I love you dressed up. But I love you this way, too." Her hand splays across his smooth chest .

"We have a couple of hours before we _absolutely_ have to decide, you know..."

"I think that's enough time to make up my mind. Maybe."

"Unless I shatter your concentration again?"

"I wouldn't complain about that, either," she whispers.

"Good," he breathes back.

Because he can't say he really gives a damn about dinner at the moment.


	56. You Always Make Me Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickon finds Mary in the barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Kyle Andrews, released in 2010.
> 
> A big thank you goes out to Slytherinsal, one of my regular reviewers on FFN and my OSoATB (Official Source of All Things British). She offered some helpful thoughts on the mating season of cats in England. (Bet you never thought about the wacky research I do for this story, did you? Now you know.)
> 
> Again, my regular reviewers wanted more Dickon and Mary, so I had to work this chapter in amidst the Colin and Cece storyline.
> 
> ~BD

****

## You Always Make Me Smile

****

"Wha' is tha doin' in _'ere_?"

Her eyes jerk up to meet his, wide and slightly guilty, and her hands protectively cradle the small puff of fur.

Dickon sighs in resignation, for he knows _exactly_ what she's doing.

After a long moment, she smiles shyly, despite being caught. "I came up to see you this morning, but you were in the vegetable gardens, so I thought..." She trails off, then plunges on, "And I wanted to see _them_ , too, and it seemed like a good excuse while I waited for you to finish with your morning work. Martha told me about them a few days ago."

He tries to look stern as he makes his way to her, where she's curled up in the hay in one of the old horse stalls. The tiny puff looks up at him with big blue eyes and mews.

"Martha." He sighs. "I shoulda guessed, I should. Eh, tha waits 'til their mother gets back, an' then thy'll catch it. She won' like thee playin' wit' 'em, an' she'll move 'em quick as a wink, she will."

His wife smiles mischievously. "Good thing I married an animal charmer then, isn't it? You'll be able to find them again; faster then she can move them, I'm sure. I seem to recall you did it a few times before, when we were younger."

He twitches, but after another long pause, he cannot help but smile as well. Instead of denying his talents, he merely asks, "An' wha' would tha do wit' a litter o' barn cats, love?"

"Take a couple of them home, so they can keep the mice away from the larder and the garden. Another four weeks and they'll be big enough for that." She lightly scratches the kitten's ears.

He pushes his cap back and rubs his rusty, wavy hair. "Tha'll have t' take 'em quicker 'en that," he muses. "Or they'll be wild like their mother."

"Two more weeks, then?"

"Aye, I'd say that's about right."

She gently deposits the little bundle back into the hay beside her, into the nest with the other four. "Verra well. In two weeks, I expect thee t' bring me two kittens home for Easter, _Animal Charmer_."

He chuckles. "Eh, as tha wishes, _Miss_ Mary!"

She smiles; he wraps his arm about her waist and she does the same, so that they bump together as they walk. But as they slip through the barn doors, Dickon cannot help but notice how she turns and glances wistfully back over her shoulder towards the unused stall, and he wonders if it's really kittens she wants.


	57. Angel of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece and Colin have a honeymoon in Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Merrilee Rush, released in 1969.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Angel of the Morning

****

The cozy village inn is situated on the side of a low hill, and because of this, it is slightly higher then the other buildings, which gives their balcony an unobstructed view of the rolling countryside.

It is early, almost dawn. Cece sighs luxuriously and holds her heavy dressing gown tight about her body. Very few people are up this early, and none that are likely to see her standing against the wrought-iron railing, waiting for the sunrise.

Below, cobbled and narrow streets twist and wind into nooks and crannies; window boxes sporting early spring flowers peek from here and there, and beyond the edge of the village she can see what will be a wave of rich color in only a few minutes, when the sun peeks over the horizon and strikes the fields and vineyards or northern Italy.

From inside their snug chambers, she hears her husband sleepily call out to her. Cece ignores him and continues to enjoy the view, for she did not have a chance to see it the night before when they arrived. Tonight, however, she plans to stand on the balcony and watch the stars until she falls asleep and Colin must to carry her to bed.

A few moments pass, and the next thing she knows, he is stumbling out onto the balcony beside her, rubbing his eyes. His hair is tousled and he is only barely awake, and she cannot help but giggle at his appearance. He looks nothing like a married man, and everything like a teenaged boy.

"Wha's s' amusin'?" he yawns (and in that confounded dialect she hasn't heard enough of to learn, yet).

"You! You look as though you haven't slept for days. Go back to bed, darling."

"Only if you come too."

"In a bit," she promises, turning back to the view. "I want to watch the sunrise."

Rather than return inside, he shuffles up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, and his head drops to her shoulder. She enjoys the intimacy for a minute or so, until she realizes his breathing has become _too_ steady.

"Colin, wake up!" she insists, nudging him. "It's too beautiful to sleep out here! Go back inside if you want a lie in."

He grumbles slightly and tightens his arms around her waist. "...was comfortable," he mumbles.

The sun is just starting to crest the far point where land and sky meet. "What are we going to do today?" she asks softly, lifting her hand to her shoulder and sliding her fingers into his silky hair. "And don't answer that we're going to stay in the room. We did that on the way over."

He yawns _again_. "I arranged a couple of vineyard tours last night, actually. Starting at eleven this morning."

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_ , because I was hoping to sleep later then six o'clock!"

"Does Mary wake up this early?" she asks curiously.

He groans and puts his forehead back on her shoulder. "Yes, she and Dickon both! Dickon wakes up at five in the bloody morning if he can, or _earlier_...! Something's wrong with him, I'm certain of it. I mean, I know it's because he grew up a working lad and all, but still...! And worse, Mary's gotten used to doing the same, because they're married now."

"But you never wake up this early?"

He finally concedes. "I do when I'm at Misselthwaite. The garden is too amazing in the morning not to. But elsewhere..."

"Well, Italy is too amazing in the morning not to, either. Come on, wake up." She smiles, twists in his arms, cups his face, and kisses him. After a few seconds, she whispers against his mouth, "You did telegram Mr. Harvey and let him know we arrived safely, didn't you? He'll worry, otherwise."

"Yes. I did that last night." His lips connect to hers again, coaxing and slow.

Between touches, she mumbles, "And you did telegram your father, didn't you?"

"Yes. I did that last night, too." His lips slide away from her mouth and skim her throat.

Quite suddenly, someone nearby chuckles; Cece jolts and glances to her left, only to see an older woman shaking a dishrag out of a window in an upper level of a flat. The lady grins at the two of them before turning and chattering away in Italian. Cece never learned the language, but she can fathom a guess that the woman is saying something about two young people showing any sort of affectionate display on a balcony in a public setting.

Blushing fiercely, she looks back up at her husband, only to find him grinning idiotically at her with a slightly dazed, and still slightly sleepy expression.

She groans and closes her eyes. "Don't you _dare_ say 'I told you so', Colin." And before he can answer, she slips back into their chambers as quickly as possible and drags him along. He snickers as she closes the glass doors and draws the curtains, plunging them into darkness.

He teases, "You're not embarrassed, are you?"

"No, I was completely covered," she replies loftily, turning for the bed again. "But it is a bit chilly, so if you would put another couple of logs on the fire, I would be appreciative."

He doesn't. Instead, he follows her and climbs in after her, and draws the heavy quilts over both of them. "It'll be faster this way," he breathes in her ear.

She purses her lips to keep from smiling, and wraps her arms about him. "Oh, very well. But we aren't going to be late for our appointments, Colin. So we'd best not fall back asleep."

"Don't worry," he promises. "We won't."


	58. As We Go Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon take a twilight walk and discuss Colin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1968.

****

## As We Go Along

****

The sky above the moor is fading into deep purple, and Mary can see a few twinkling stars appearing on the eastern edge. She draws her wrap about her more closely and leans her head against Dickon's shoulder as they meander, her eyes following the streaks of pink and gold in the west to the top of the dome, where they melt into velvety dark blue. The scent of fresh heather wafts past her, and she can hear the faint sounds of the rolling hills as they fall into sleepy silence. She loves this habit they've fallen into the past week, of taking evening walks on the moor around their home.

Breathing deeply, she murmurs, "I meant to tell you earlier; Uncle Archie had a telegram today. From Colin."

Her husband's arm shifts slightly and his fingers curl about her hip. "Did he say he'd be comin' home soon?"

"Yes, he said he'd be home in time for Easter, though he wasn't certain what day, yet."

"Eh, well, tha's something. Be good t' see him again." Dickon smiles down at her, but when her expression doesn't change, his eyebrows lift a bit. "Doesn' thy think so? I thought thy missed him as much as I do."

"I do miss Colin! It will be good to see him again; he's been gone for ages, it seems."

Dickon pauses and traces his finger across her cheek. "Then why does tha look so deep in thought?"

She manages a small smile. "Because I _was_ thinking. He said he was bringing a surprise home, but you know Colin. He daren't let on what it was, and I've been trying to figure out what it could be all day."

"Prob'ly more seed packets for thee." Her husband grins. "He did say he would bring thee some this spring again, remember?"

Her smile broadens. "Aye, he did. Perhaps that's it. Unless he's bringing something home for Uncle."

Dickon begins to walk again, keeping his arm about her waist. He chuckles and says, "Tha knows Colin. He could bring home a horse, he could, an' say it's a gift for Master Craven."

"Oh good God, what if he does? Or what if he brings home a new _car_?"

"Wha' if he bought a boat?" he teases.

"Lord! No, he wouldn't dare do such a thing – he knows his father would be furious!"

"Maybe he bought some land then, or a manor out on th' coast."

"Perhaps he's acquired tickets to the games this summer. He always did love running."

"Eh, wouldn' tha' be something?" Dickon grins as he pushes his cap up a few inches and tugs it back down at a rakish angle. "I wish he'd a chance t' run in 'em hisself. He should go, at th' verra least, and see 'em in person."

"I asked him a couple of months ago why he didn't try out, and he claimed he wasn't as fast as the athletes who were chosen to represent Britain. But I find _that_ hard to believe." She pauses, and then laughs softly, "Uncle Archie said he hoped it wasn't anything more than Colin bringing home a new movie camera to make home films with. Poor Uncle; he's not too keen on surprises, and I'm not certain that Colin understands that."

"Aye, does thy know? Tha's probably jus' it! Some new-fangled invention that Colin would want t' play wit'."

Still giggling, she pushes the gate to their garden open. But when she notices a scurrying movement out of the corner of her eye, the laughter fades. Frowning after the little shadow, she says, "You haven't forgotten about the kittens, have you, Dickon?"

"No, love, I haven'." He kisses her temple. "Few more days. Jus' be patient. I've been watchin' the mice about th' place; they're not rats yet."

"Thank God for _that_! But I'll still feel better when they're being chased away, and not threatening my larder _or_ my roses."


	59. Leave Me Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece arrive in Yorkshire after their honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by the Corrs, released in 2000.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Leave Me Breathless

****

The cart bumps along over ruts and uneven ground, but she hardly notices the jolting, for the landscape is simply too interesting. The air is light and fresh and clean, the bright gold-flowering bushes her husband calls _gorse_ are blooming vibrantly, and a few birds flit and dart across the pale blue morning sky.

Randolph would be horrified, she thinks with a smile, to see her as she currently is: in a rough little country cart full of hay, being driven by a local man whose tongue she can't understand for the life of her, with her luggage stowed safely in a tiny railway station in the middle of nowhere, waiting to be retrieved later in the day.

However, perhaps the _most_ interesting thing isn't all of that or the landscape, but the fact that Colin has transformed from the young man she's always known into someone or something else, and not at all in a bad way. The transformation has brought out a different sort of smile upon his face; it makes his eyes shine, his muscles relax. She wonders why he isn't like this everywhere else, and settles on the thought that perhaps it is because this is his real home and he can be a different sort of Colin here.

"Gla' th' win'er's o'er," the local farmer remarks, leaning back to look over his shoulder at Colin, who is sprawled on his back in the hay, hands under his head, eyes fixed on the sky. "Itn' thee, Mester Colin?"

"Aye," her husband responds, his smile curving. "Righ' glad o' it! Dreary soart o' season is win'er; nothin' e'er happens. Spring, though... eh! e'rythin' happens in th' spring."

Cece shakes her head and watches as a rabbit darts across the path behind the cart to the other side of the moor. "It's like another language!" she mutters audibly. "I hate not understanding it!"

Colin laughs at her. "Tha's wh' Mary said, once – tha' it wert a'oth'r language. She'll teach thee, if thy wishes t' learn."

"I'm going to have to learn! Otherwise, I'll never understand a word anyone is saying when we're here!"

The man driving the cart laughs, too. "Beggin' thy pardon, miss," he apologizes sincerely. "I ne'er think wha' it mun sound like t' someone who ain' from 'ere. Lord! But I can' e'en talk a gentl'man's English t' save me life, can I?"

"You've no need t', Mr. Thomas," Colin reminds him, smiling up from his position.

"Eh, p'rhaps tha's righ', lad. P'rhaps tha's righ'. By-th'-by, th' manor's lookin' righ' nice this time o' year, I hear. Glad t' be goin' by there for a bit t' drop thee off! Glad thy stopped me in Thwaite, I am. I hear Dickon-lad's got th' gardens righ' graidl'y. Talk o' th' village, th'art."

"He'd better 'ave them lookin' nice. He'll catch it from me if he donna." Colin glances at Cece and asks hopefully, if not a bit anxiously, "Well? Wha' does thy think o' Yorkshire, love?"

She cannot help but smile back at him. "I think it's beautiful. I can see now why Mary would want to spend her entire life in this place, when I didn't understand a few months ago at all."

Mr. Thomas chuckles. "Miss Mary! She is a good lass. I jus' saw 'er yesterday as a matter o' fact, in Thwaite, buyin' seeds an' sugar. O'erh'rd 'er tellin' Mrs. Wells tha' Dickon brough' home a couple o' kittens t' keep th' mice away at their place. She was righ' glad o' it."

Colin, who has returned to gazing at the sky, remarks lazily, "Good thing he got 'em b'fore they turned wild."

"Eh, Dickon-lad could tame a lion, he could. Wouldn' matter if th' kittens were wild or not."

Cece says, "I can't wait to meet Dickon and Mary. Oh, Colin, what if they don't like me?" And for the first time since they started back to England from Tuscany, she feels a stab of trepidation. What if Mary and Dickon _don't_ like her?

Colin props up on one elbow and meets her eyes. "Trust me. That's the _last_ thing you have to worry about. Dickon likes practically everyone, and Mary will love you because you're sensible and intelligent. Don't worry."

She nods and takes a deep breath, and tries to go back to watching her husband's beautiful countryside.


	60. Freeze Frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mrs. Medlock and Martha are surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by J Geils Band, released in 1981.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Freeze Frame

****

At seventy-five years of age, she sometimes wonders if she is too old for this; if she shouldn't just retire and live the rest of her life in peace.

But then again, she would feel wrong if she left now. She has watched two of her charges grow and mature into young adults, she has tended to her duties meticulously, and she has been treated well by her employer. It would be foolish to leave, for she would never find another position as comfortable as this one.

Still, the _not knowing_ is what's so blasted annoying. Lord Craven was that way once, she remembers with definite irritation. He never told anyone where he was going, when he would be returning, what he would be doing...or much of anything else, for that matter. Not that he was required to, being the master of the house. But it always made things difficult to plan in advance. And Colin is shaping up to be the same way. She supposes it has everything to do with wealth, with having the ability to do as one pleases - which is something she has never known and never will (not that it matters, particularly). However, she does wish her young master had at the very least given her a specific _day_ that he would be returning home, even if he couldn't be bothered with what _time_.

As it is, _before Easter_ encompassed two weeks in total, though now only a couple of days. And if young Sallie hadn't been cleaning one of the bedrooms on the second floor and noticed the cart coming up the avenue, Mrs. Medlock herself wouldn't have known that he was back until Colin burst through the front door.

She thanks the wide-eyed maid in her curt, formal voice and orders the girl to return to her chores, cutting off an attempt at protest. Sallie looks quite dejected, for she obviously had more that she wished to say; but after a quick curtsy, she mounts the wide staircase and returns to her duties.

"Martha?" Medlock turns around, and finds the eldest Sowerby daughter close behind her, hovering and quiet, awaiting her orders as always. "Ah, good. I'm sure he'll have a number of requests the moment he enters. He always does. I'll need your help, so if you would make a mental note of whatever it is he'll ask."

"Yes'am."

"His room is ready, I assume?"

"Yes'am, I jus' need t' put sheets on th' bed. I cleaned th' room two days ago."

"Excellent."

However, moments later, it strikes her that in seventy-five long years of life, just when she thinks that she has seen everything... she hasn't really. Not even when she saw him walking for the first time, not even when Archibald Craven entered the front foyer of the ancient house, his expression stern and _hers sweet and wonderful_.

"Medlock! Martha!"

Colin's face glows; his smile is cheerful, his complexion healthy, his hair wind-blown from riding in an open cart across the moor, his eyes bright like his mother's. And Medlock cannot help but think of _Lilias_ , the first day she met the new lady of the house so many years back. But no, _this girl_ must be a friend of Colin's, for Colin is so young that he would _never_... After all, she rationalizes hurriedly in her mind, he's traveled so much in the past few months that it isn't terribly surprising that he would bring a friend to Misselthwaite.

And so, she politely manages, "Master Colin! It is good to see you, lad," while reminding herself that regardless of anything else, she holds an important position in t he house and she cannot looked shocked. Martha, bless her, is doing enough of that for the both of them. She adds, "You look healthy, if I may say so."

He laughs. "I am healthy, tha knows!"

His use of board Yorkshire enables her to speak in such a way as well, for he told her once as a child that he wished people would speak it in the manor more often. "I wish thy'd written t' let us know thee'd be bringin' home a guest," she reprimands him lightly, praying that he won't take offense.

"I am sorry," he says sheepishly, slightly abashed but all smiles, still. "You'll forgive me, I hope?"

"Tha knows it's quite all right, sir. I'll have Martha prepare another room." Medlock glances again at the girl he's brought home, noting her pretty features and how she looks shy to be in a place she isn't familiar with.

"That won't be necessary, Medlock," Colin interrupts in his mock-arrogant tone, his smile broadening even more and giving his real emotions away. He holds up his left hand and a flash of glittering gold catches her eye.

"Where's my father?" he asks - though now, for some reason, his voice seems far away to her ears, as though from the end of a long corridor.

And she finds that, even though she had told herself just seconds prior not to look shocked or surprised, she cannot answer his question because she _is_ so shocked.

He laughs again at her reaction, clearly one that he wanted, and takes the pretty girl's hand. "Never mind. I'll find him. If you can send John and Roach back to the station for the luggage, Medlock? And don't forget another place at dinner. Oh, and Mary and Dickon will probably want to eat here tonight as well. Thank you!" he calls out over his shoulder, as he heads down one of the corridors and disappears around a corner.

For the first time in nearly ten years, since the day she saw him walking with Lord Craven from the gardens, she cannot say or do anything. She can only stare at Martha in shock.

Small blessings, she thinks weakly, that the young woman looks as stunned as she feels.


	61. Collision of Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary and Lord Craven are surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from Disney's "Cars II".
> 
> ~BD

****

## Collision of Worlds

****

Her uncle watches as she rubs her fingers through the baby lamb's soft wool. It seems like nearly every spring or summer, excepting the time he was in France, Dickon has stumbled across some creature or another on the moor that lost its mother and needed care.

"He has a knack for finding them, I'll say that much," Lord Craven remarks.

"I don't think he can _help_ finding them."

Her uncle smiles slightly, shakes his head, and returns to his morning paper. Mary shifts the lamb on her lap, content with the silence between them, because it is a beautiful spring morning, full of color and light breeze, and she would much rather soak it in than discuss the affairs of the world with Archibald Craven at this particular moment.

As she languidly looks about, she happens to notice a couple of young housemaids talking excitedly to two of the under-gardeners, near the hedges that border the servants' quarters on the far side of the great lawn. Their faces all looked surprised and eager, even at the distance. _Gossip_ , Mary thinks with light annoyance. If they all knew what was good for them, they would take their talk behind the hedges; otherwise, they will really be in trouble if Lord Craven sees them neglecting their duties in such fashion.

But to her further irritation, they just _continue_ to stand around chatting. The seconds tick by, and she's about decided to say something to her uncle herself, when to her surprise, her husband suddenly rounds the far hedges. His face takes on a stony, stern expression that Mary has rarely ever seen, and he strides towards the four servants and apparently orders them back to work, for they jump and scurry frantically. Dickon, however, doesn't wait to make certain that they've obey his orders; instead, he turns, catches sight of his wife, and hurries across the lawn towards Mary and Lord Craven.

"What was that about?" Mary asks curiously, the moment he's close enough that she doesn't need to shout for him to hear her.

"Eh..." he starts. Then he trails off and runs a hand behind his neck, under his shirt collar, and glances nervously towards the manor.

Without looking up from his newspaper, Lord Craven asks, "Is something wrong, Dickon?"

"Well, that's not _quite_ the way to put it." Dickon tries again. "It's... well, sir, it's Colin. He jus' got home, sir."

Lord Craven sighs in resignation, but still doesn't look up from his paper. " _Ah_. So, what's this _surprise_ he's brought home?" he asks grimly. "A car, I presume?"

"No, sir. Not a car."

Mary arches an eyebrow. "What _has_ he brought home, then?"

Suddenly, one of the manor doors that lead onto the back terrace flies open, and her eyes snap towards it as Colin steps out. He is grinning widely, and the second he sees her, he practically shouts her name and Dickon's in excitement. But she barely hears him as her eyes slide to the second person who steps outside with him: a pretty young woman with blonde hair.

More than confused, she stammers, "Dickon, who is that?"

Her uncle finally looks up from his paper. "Whom?" he asks irritably, for he never liked to be interrupted while reading. And then his voice trails off, too.

Dickon looks as though he would prefer to disappear completely, and Mary asks him more suspiciously, " _Do_ you know who she is?"

Defeatedly, he admits, "Well, soart o'."

Her thoughts jumble; she isn't certain _what_ to feel, exactly. She rises and deposits the lamb on her uncle's lap, politely ordering him to hold the poor thing for a moment, before she rounds on her husband.

"Dickon Sowerby, do you mean to tell me that you knew about this _surprise_ all along?"

"Not exactly! Not particulars!" he insists. "Does thy remember? I told thee Colin was like a missel thrush, and he'd made me promise...!"

Oh, she remembers this promise all right. When Dickon first told her of it, she had accepted his wisdom in the matter; now, it seems almost ridiculous that he and Colin have kept it from her. And at the thought of Colin, she turns, holding a finger up, ready to find her cousin and light into him for all the secrecy. Fortunately, he's only a few feet away now, and his smile has faded somewhat at her obvious temper.

"Mary, wait," he says, quickly interrupting a promising tirade. "Dickon didn't know everything, I swear it."

"Yes, well, I didn't know _anything_!"

The pretty girl beside him looks up at him in surprise at Mary's statement. "I thought you telegrammed home!" she says, her tone slightly hurt. But Mary is more startled to hear the different accent of her voice – an American accent.

"I did!" he insists, clearly trying to placate the girl. "I told them I had a wonderful surprise –"

"A _surprise_?" The girl's eyes narrow at him, as though she can't quite believe it. " _That's_ what you telegrammed to your father?"

"Yes! I wanted it all to be a surprise! For everyone! Father," he adds, in a polite tone to Lord Craven (whom Mary notices looks quite stunned), "This is Cindy Chloe Castor." He pauses, then plunges on, " _Craven_. Cindy _Craven_."

Completely startled again, Mary's eyes dart to Colin's left hand, which he's held up for them to see, and she momentarily feels faint. She can't seem to think at all; the very thought that Colin eloped without telling anyone is, for some reason, both horribly absurd and yet perfectly, accurately, deliberately _Colin_.

"Cindy, this is my father, Archibald Craven. This is my cousin, Mary Lennox Sowerby, and my best mate, Dickon." He smiles at Dickon, who cannot help but smother a wince at the scene taking place before him.

Poor Cindy looks terribly nervous now that she's discovered she was a _surprise_ , and though she politely says hello to all of them, she bites her lip at the finish and looks at the ground, clearly afraid that perhaps they will hate her because they didn't know a thing about her.

And, instantly, to Mary's further surprise, she realizes that her head suddenly has cleared somewhat. She's been ungracious and rude up 'til this point, because she was and is still _so_ shocked, but she can't be that way now. _Cindy_ doesn't deserve that, even if Colin does. She quickly turns towards the girl, takes her hands, and smiles at her. "Colin can be absolutely _beastly_ sometimes, can't he?" she declares, and she is pleased when Cindy manages a smile at her words, though somewhere to her right she hears Colin complain angrily at the description. Ignoring him, she adds, "I'm certain you've had a long journey here, from wherever it is he's dragged you to and from on a honeymoon, and I'm certain you'd probably appreciate a long, hot bath and some tea?"

Cindy's smile broadens, and she admits sheepishly, "Thank you, that does sound wonderful."

"Come, then." Mary beams and links arms with her. "A bath is easily arranged. At times, Colin has no consideration at all. Lord, but he is such a _rajah_ , sometimes!"

Cindy giggles at the image and smiles over her shoulder at her husband, but once she and Mary are halfway back to the manor, she says very quietly, "Thank you for being so kind. I'm so sorry, I'd no idea he didn't tell anyone. I thought... I was certain he had told his father, at the very least, that he and I had married."

For the first time, Mary feels slightly anxious and worried. She is no longer the sort of society that a wealthy woman would desire to associate freely with. A bit sadly, she replies, "Why should you be? You've nothing to be sorry for. You weren't aware that Colin hadn't told anyone. However, _I_ should apologize to _you_ , for being so rude moments ago. I do hope we can be friends. Will you forgive me? He caught everyone by surprise, that's all. I'd no idea what to think or do at that moment and for that, I do beg your forgiveness. He does that, sometimes – surprises everyone, I mean. He _enjoys_ it, even. It's the most irritating thing ever, and more then one person will have words with him about it, I assure you."

To her surprise, Cindy looks relieved. "There is nothing to forgive. You had every right to be upset with him, if you're as close of friends as he's said you are, and I had never once dreamed that he _didn't_ tell you what had taken place. Our marriage was very unexpected, but he _did_ have time to telegram the basic information. I would dearly like us to be friends," she adds sincerely. "Colin has told me so much of you and Dickon both, and I've been so eager to meet you."

As they reach the manor, Mary hears her uncle demand that Dickon take the confounded lamb out of his lap, and demands that Colin sit down immediately and explain himself.

_Serves him right_ , she thinks savagely, as she allows Cindy to enter the house first. Pulling the door closed behind her, she replies, "Of course we shall be friends. I would be quite upset if we weren't! Now, I've some old gowns still here, if you should like one to wear until your luggage arrives. They may not be in fashion these days, but I know one or two of them are silk. And I'll ask Martha to bring some tea, so we can have some refreshment and conversation when you finish."

"That sounds perfect," Cindy agrees.

The two girls glance at each other, and both smile.

But Mary cannot help but feel a twinge of sadness all the same, and after she orders Martha to draw a hot, scented bath and Medlock to fetch one of her old gowns, she finds that all she wants is to be selfish and retreat to her secret garden, and sort out her feelings.


	62. Old Fashioned Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to Lilias and Archibald's first meeting (or at least how I envision it), and Lilias's conversation with her brother, Captain Lennox, the day of their wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Three Dog Night, released in 1971.
> 
> This chapter is the exact same as Part V of "A Space of Flowers". After I wrote this chapter of "Aftermath", I had several regular reviewers beg me to write more of Lilias and Archie, which was how "A Space of Flowers" came to be.
> 
> A lot of people seem to be very familiar with the 1993 movie, but I write per the book. It's not that I have anything against the movie, I just haven't seen it, and I've read the book countless times. In the movie, I think Lilias and Mary's mother must have been sisters or something, because I've had reviewers comment on that before. However, in the book, Lord Craven distinctly tells Mrs. Medlock that Mary's father, Captain Lennox, was Lilias's brother. I write per the novel. I had to come up with a name for Mary's father, and William was ridiculously popular in the 19th century, so I went with that.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Old Fashioned Love Song

****

She is trying desperately not to cry, for if she does, she'll ruin her face and then she won't be able to return to the ballroom at all. People will talk, rumors will fly, Aunt Millicent will be disappointed, her brother will be baffled, and her sister-in-law _still_ won't understand her. Rather, her sister-in-law will probably be the one _spreading_ the rumors, she thinks bitterly.

It all nearly makes her burst into tears anyways. She chokes down a quiet sob and takes a few deep, gulping breathes to steady herself.

Her entire life of eighteen years seems to have been leading up to this moment – this one extravagant ball in which she was to make her grand debut into society – when in reality, she feels like a trapped bird in a gilded cage, dressed in an expensive pale pink silk gown dripping with lace and pearls, her hair done up fashionably, while a slightly tighter corset then usual bites into her delicate frame. No one has ever really understood her, it seems. She's much too shy for being the center of attention and she's terrified of making mistakes. She has only ever had her preoccupied, elder brother and her great-aunt as guardians - neither of whom has been overly affectionate, especially as of late.

They would never understand, for instance, how she feels about her debut. Perhaps worse than the idea of making mistakes, are all the men in attendance tonight. And good God, but they do seem to be everywhere, and all at once! All of them drawn to her, swarming about her, their eyes flaring in the lights as they take in her appearance and decide that they are pleased with her, that she will make an excellent, submissive sort of society wife to parade about, as though she were nothing more than a show dog. Men her own age, men twice her age, even men four times her age with white hair and wrinkled brows, each of them wondering if they will be honored with more then a waltz...

And yet, she may have somehow managed to remain calm despite these nerve-racking attentions, and continue to be as polite and sweet as her etiquette lessons have taught her, had Ruby not dragged William into the waltz. A scheme, no doubt, that her frivolous sister-in-law had likely concocted to thrust poor Lilias into the center of so many men without the hovering aid of her serious brother, and force her to agree to dance with yet another potential suitor. Her silly card is quite full; she can't possibly dance with _all_ of them, and her shoes pinch her feet on top of everything else.

Then, to her horror, a crunch of gravel catches her attention and she tenses in fear. She shouldn't have slipped out unnoticed, for someone will surely realize that she is gone! Furthermore, it would be highly improper to meet anyone out in the secluded gardens without her brother to act as her chaperone. Then she will be talked over, which is even worse!

A moment later, a man steps around the corner of the hedge and catches sight of her; she remains frozen, like a rabbit terrified the hounds will chase it if it moves. In the moonlight, she recognizes him, though she hasn't met him personally. Ruby pointed him out to her earlier in the evening a couple of times, with barely concealed mirth that erupted into giggles more then once.

_"Oh, and that is Lord Archibald Craven, skulking in the corner as always, if he even bothers to attend such events! He's quite peculiar. And ancient! They say he's not even nine-and-twenty, but he acts as though he's nine-and-fifty! See his shoulders? As he grows older, he becomes more and more hunched, until before you know it, he shall be Quasimodo! Perhaps her Majesty the Queen will put him in Saint Paul's so that he may ring the bells! ...Ah, Captain Dexter! So good to see you, sir! Have you met dearest Lilias yet? This is Lilias Lennox, my husband's darling little sister. But of course you shall have a dance with her! I'm sure she has a waltz free, don't you, Lilias?"_

The seconds tick by; he seems too startled to turn and walk away, and she is too frightened to move at all. But after a few tense moments, he mumbles a hasty apology for interrupting her solitude, and turns to go back the way he came.

"No, wait!" She speaks before she thinks, her hand suddenly outstretched as if to stop him. With a strange rush of clarity, she only knows that she feels sorry for him, more sorry then she feels for herself, because everyone else seems to tease the poor man so and he doesn't appear to have the first friend here tonight. What has he done to deserve that? Has he not socialized the way society expected? She can understand that; she is always afraid she will say or do the wrong thing. She always feels as though no one understands her shyness and desire for quiet pursuits. Not her great-aunt, whose only desire is to make certain Lilias enters society before the woman's death, nor her brother, who is too concerned with the state of military affairs in India to think of much else right now, and certainly not Ruby, whose main desire in life is to be seen and admired by the world.

And oh, but no one would understand her now at all, she thinks with sudden horror. A proper lady would never demand a man that she doesn't even know, to remain alone with her! Flushing furiously, she stammers, "What I meant was, please don't go on my account. I was just... admiring the gardens. It's so stuffy inside, and..." She trails off again, flustered and upset. She should never have opened her mouth...! What must he think of her? She twists her gloved fingers and looks away, unable to meet his gaze. What if he returns to the ball and tells everyone how peculiar she is? Oh, heavens!

However, after an excruciatingly long pause, he asks hesitatingly, "Do you... like gardens?"

When she dares to glance up at him, she finds that his brow is furrowed and he looks somewhat confused. Evidently, Lord Archibald Craven is not accustomed to a lady requesting his company or even initiating a conversation with him.

In a small voice, she says, "Yes, sir. Especially the ones in the country. They always seem so wild and beautiful. These," she gestures slightly towards the row of neat, tiny flowers that form a border to the hedges, "look so pitiful and forced."

In a way, she thinks, they remind her of herself: _Unhappy_. The trouble is, she's not certain what would _make_ her happy in life anymore.

The corner of his mouth turns upward just a fraction, but she notices that his words border cynicism. "Colonel Humphries is not known for anything, if not rigid order," he states dryly.

"So my brother has advised me," she replies automatically, almost becoming _Lilias_ , instead of _The Lilias Society Expects_. Then, startled at how easily the words came, how easily she slipped into being her real self around this strange man whom she does not know, she stammers politely, "Not that he isn't an excellent host, of course!"

Lord Craven ignores the last comment, and instead replies, "Speaking of Captain Lennox, I am surprised he allowed you out of his sight, Miss Lennox. I understood from Colonel Humphries that this was your debut."

"Yes, sir. It is." She sighs, almost petulantly. "But my sister-in-law insisted that William dance with her, and she left me alone to my own devices. I'm sure she expected me to continue entertaining all of the eligible young men in the entire Empire, but I'm not very good at conversation and I thought the fresh air would help clear my head. I will go back in now, only _please_ don't tell anyone where I was. I'm so terrified of making mistakes, and no one would understand why I'd left. Especially not Ruby, or even William."

It is too dark for her to see the expression in his eyes, but he offers his arm and says quietly, "I understand. I'll walk you as far as the first terrace."

She hesitates, but this gesture is nothing more then politeness. She tucks her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow and gathers up her train. To her surprise, a strange feeling of exhaustion and relief sweep through her at the exact same time when she touches him; she looks up, his eyes catch the moonlight and she notices how sad and soulful they are, almost as though they can see into _her_ soul instead of just her outside appearance, but not in a way that makes her feel uneasy. He is all kindness. Any other man may not have behaved so gentlemanly towards her tonight as he has, she is sure of that.

And really, his shoulders are not as hunched as Ruby insinuated. They are merely a bit higher up then most men, giving him a drawn-in appearance, perhaps. And nine-and-twenty isn't overly old, either. Lilias can't say either fact bothers her in the least.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He looks surprised by the gentleness in her voice, before he nods that he heard her. They fall into an awkward silence until they reach the terrace, and there, he pauses before hesitantly kissing her fingertips and gesturing back up the steps for her to continue the rest of the journey alone.

Despite the strange tingling sensation she feels from her hand to her shoulder, starting from the point where lips chastely brushed her glove, she quickly gathers her dress and slips back inside of the ball; moments later, her brother finds her lurking in one of the boudoirs and scolds her for disappearing to the powder room unnoticed. But Lilias barely hears him and doesn't bother correcting his assumption, and for the rest of the night, she can't help but look over her dance partners' shoulders to seek out Lord Craven's gaze.

Nor can she help feeling giddy at the fact that it's always on her.

**oOo**

"Are you certain about this?"

She smiles sincerely at her brother's reflection in the vanity mirror, as he attaches a string of pearls about her neck. "Yes, William," she answers.

He seems flustered; she can see it in his face. He is leaving for India in two days and he doesn't like her decision. He thinks it was made too hastily and without due consideration. She can't help that, however. He can have India; she, however, craves Yorkshire.

Looking quite upset, he says bluntly, "I should tell you, before Ruby does, that nearly all of London believes you're marrying the strangest man in the United Kingdom, Lilias. It's given you a reputation as well. And not in a good sort of way. Now everyone believes that _you_ are strange."

"And yet, I can't say that I care," she answers pleasantly.

He turns her about on the vanity chair and kneels before her. He is dashing in his uniform, all neat and polished and flashing with ribbons and medals. Were it not for the strain of the military, creating premature lines upon his face, he would be quite handsome, she thinks sadly. She wondered when her brother grew so old.

His words bring her out of her thoughts. "Lilias, for God's sake, listen to me! He's a solitary man and horribly peculiar! He prefers the country to town, he rarely attends balls and parties, and he's constantly out of place when he does bother to attend an event! Next to you, he looks even worse – you're so beautiful and young...! You could have anyone you wish, Lilias! Anyone! I want you to be happy, and I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into!"

She takes his hands in hers. "But I _do_ know," she insists. "Believe me, I truly _do_ know what I've chosen! I'm hopelessly in love with Archie. You must trust me, William. Please."

"Do you? Lilias, Thwaite is nothing more then a pinprick on the lonely landscape of the north, hidden away in the middle of a God-forsaken moor. There will be nothing for you to do there! No society, no friends, no activities!"

"There are gardens," she says, a bit stubbornly. Archie has told her all about them; she has been desperately eager to see them for herself. To get lost within them, alone with him. To feel his lips slide over her neck and his hands curl about her waist, drawing her closer to him... To feel his mouth merging with hers and the heat licking her body and not having to worry about getting caught for it, because they will be husband and wife...

"They say his manor there is ancient and archaic! Full of relics rather than antiques! It will be dark and foreboding and horridly depressing! You are _better_ then this –"

Her voice becomes firm, something it never was before she met Archie. "He's a _Lord_ , William. I can't do better then a Lord, unless I married a prince, and that seems very unlikely, now doesn't it?"

"What about Captain Fiztherbert? He's always adored you! Or Major Yarbourgh?"

"Absolutely not! I don't want to go to India, or any other colony. I want to remain here, in England. This is my home! I wouldn't feel comfortable anywhere else!"

"Ruby would love you to join us there, dear! Then you would at least have her for company, and..."

She doesn't even want to _think_ about having to spend her days with Ruby, who is so completely opposite of Lilias in every way, and so she says, " _No_ , William. Come now, its almost time; I'll not be late for my own wedding."

"Lilias, _please_...!"

"He's _different_ when he's around me. I wish you could understand! He opens up for me, like a flower that blossoms in the spring sunlight, opening petals to the sky! He adores me. No other man has ever shown me _nearly_ the devotion Archie has –"

"You haven't given them time!" he argues heatedly, rising and beginning to pace the room. "He started courting you the day after your debut, which I can't say I like in the least! You refused to stand up with anyone else! You haven't given anyone else a _chance_ , Lilias! Dozens of men would be interested in you, if you'd just call this off and –"

"Enough." She quickly goes to him and places her hand on his arm. "I don't want you to be angry with me. But I _am_ going to marry him, in fifteen minutes, so I beg you to please be happy for me and not worry about me. You will have enough to worry about in Calcutta, and I will be absolutely happy with Archie. I could care less what society thinks of me, for I have the exceedingly good fortune of marrying for both love _and_ wealth."

Captain William Lennox looks completely dejected at her declaration, but after a long moment, he takes her hands and sighs heavily. "Very well, pet. I will try. But it won't be easy."

She stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. "That is a start. I will write to you every week, and assure you that I am well. There now. I'll be down in a moment. Go on."

He nods hopelessly, and steps back into the hall. As soon as the door closes, she turns back to the vanity mirror and takes a deep breath. Smiling at her reflection, she cannot possibly repress the giddy feeling curling in her chest. She has never been happier in her life, and she hopes fervently that it will only get better.


	63. The Door Into Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary, Colin, and Lord Craven discuss Colin's elopement with varying emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1967.
> 
> Sorting through Mary and Lord Craven's emotions was interesting, to say the least.
> 
> ~BD

****

## The Door Into Summer

****

When she peeks into the garden, she discovers that he is standing beside the tumbling sprays of pink roses. She steps inside and slowly approaches him, before she says quietly, "Jemmy said that he saw you heading this way, and I assumed that you had come here, to the garden." She hesitates. "I wanted to make certain that you were alright, Uncle."

Without turning to face her, he reaches out and brushes his fingers along one of the rose petals. There is a long pause; then, with a heavy sigh, he murmurs, "At some point in our lives, our faults are suddenly and painfully revealed to us with amazing clarity, Mary. I fear – no, I _know_ – that I have been an exceedingly selfish man."

" _Selfish_? Oh, Uncle. No –"

He cuts her off. "Yes, Mary. Selfish."

She doesn't know what to say to this. He doesn't want pity, that much is certain.

After another long moment, he says slowly, "I do not have many friends, you know. A few acquaintances, but no one I can really trust or rely on. It was always thus; it never bothered me before and, in all actuality, it enabled me to do as I pleased. My mother died giving birth to my brother. I don't remember her; I was too young myself at the time. My father raised us without the influence of a woman in our lives – my deformity naturally made me more of the social outcast then Edwin." He smiles sadly, and cuts her off before she can argue. "Good that I was the eldest, for I required no further schooling beyond university, as I was to inherit Misselthwaite. Edwin, in need of a more concrete income, went on to medical school in Edinburgh. By the time I was in my late twenties, I'd assumed that I would die a bachelor and leave the estate to him, or to his children if he produced any. I never went to parties or balls or social events. I rarely even went to London. So the chances of my meeting a woman of my own social status was, I confess, quite small."

She feels awkward, and yet at the same time, frozen. He has revealed more about himself to her in the past minute then in the entire time she has lived at Misselthwaite.

"In fact, I only attended that _particular_ ball simply because I had concluded a lengthy business transaction with the host, who insisted on my presence. The event was also Lilias's debut into society. Even so, she and I met under unusual circumstances, and I'm not quite sure, even now, how she could possibly have found me interesting enough to continue an association, let alone more. We married quickly – much more quickly then society expected. Within three months, Mary. Part of the reason for a hurried wedding was because your father had received his orders to report to Calcutta, and Lilias felt it was best if the wedding took place before his departure. I had no objections; I was still too stunned that she was even willing to marry an old, deformed bachelor who lived in a wild, lonely place such as Yorkshire."

He smiles briefly at his niece – a sad, bitter smile that makes her shiver. "I confess, I never once thought of alerting my staff. I simply arrived at Misselthwaite with Lilias on my arm one evening, after a lengthy honeymoon to the south of France, and I ordered Medlock to inform the servants not to talk."

"An order that likely went unheeded," she ventures, if only to lighten the conversation somewhat.

"Probably," he agrees, turning back to gaze sadly at the roses. "But Colin has inherited some of my faults, and I find that, despite my frustration and temper at his decision, I have no grounds to condemn him for what he did, for he only did exactly what _I_ did."

Heatedly, Mary responds, "No, sir, he did _not_. Aunt Lilias _planned_ your wedding. Regardless of the hastiness of it, it was planned and executed accordingly! Not only that, but any remaining family, on either side, was present!"

"Only three people, Mary. Hardly what any normal person might consider family. Your father walked Lilias down the aisle of the church, because he was her brother and their parents were deceased, and your mother stood in as the maid of honor. Edwin stood with me. There was no one else."

"But had Colin waited and brought Cindy back here, then he would have been able to include you, and me, and Dickon! Still just three people, but we are his family regardless!"

Archibald Craven sighs deeply. "He had his reasons, Mary, as he has explained to me in some detail while you escorted the young lady inside. And I fear that I am not in a position to chastise him, for that would only be hypocritical."

Mary bites her tongue; she wishes she could accuse Colin of being too young to marry, but that would be just as hypocritical.

Instead, to her consternation, several tears well in her eyes without warning, and she angrily squeezes them shut, only to have the salty drops slide unpleasantly down her face to her chin.

Her uncle places a hand on her shoulder. "I know. It isn't fair."

"No," she whispers, trying to keep her voice from breaking. "It isn't."

"But we both know that Colin always was, and always will be strong-willed. He's always done as he pleased. My fault," he admits quickly. "As I said – one's faults become blindingly clear at some point in life. This, Mary, is that moment for me."

"I wish I could slap him. I wish I could scream and frighten him again! And I can't!" More tears slip out; she turns away, ashamed to let him see her cry. "I can't do anything!"

"No, you can't. But if it's any consolation, neither can I."

She hears a hint of a smile in his voice, but does not look at him.

Heavily, he adds, "All we can do is accept it, forgive him for what we perceive as a grievance, and move on."

"I know." Mary brushes the tears away with the back of her hand.

"And, when you take all things into consideration, I'm certain Cindy is a very pleasant young lady. If I had to wager, I would say she will balance Colin's personality well. I don't think I, or Lord Willingham, or anyone else, could have selected a better wife for him."

"Yes," she agrees, turning and running her fingertips across the rose petals. "All sense and wit. I do like her. She will know when to put the Rajah in his place, and without the whining or nagging that a society girl who lacks a higher education would do. And without quite the temper that I would have. I just don't like how it came about, that's all. No one knew anything of it until this morning! How could he not _tell_ anyone?"

"Colin will one day reach this moment too," Archibald reminds her. "A moment he discovers that _he_ has been selfish. Probably when one of his children marry without his knowledge and surprise him. I'm sure, when this moment happens for him, that he will be as ashamed as I am."

"And then, it shall be too late." Mary manages a small smile. "A never-ending cycle."

"Don't be angry with him for long, Mary. Cindy will need your friendship. Despite her connections, wealth, and status, she is a foreigner in our country, and may likely prefer your company to other ladies."

She nods, feeling awfully childlike and hating it. "Yes, sir."

The garden door suddenly opens again, and to Mary's consternation, her cousin steps inside, looking confused.

"Mary! What are you doing in here? I thought you were upstairs with Cindy!"

"I was," Mary replies archly, straightening her shoulders and frowning at him. "But as she's taking her bath, I felt I had a few minutes to steal away and make certain your father was well."

Colin's expression turns sullen. "You were talking about me, weren't you?" he asks suspiciously, looking from one to the other.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Colin! Of course we were! You can't possibly expect to do something like this and not have anyone talk about you! People are going to be talking for months, as compared to the mere couple of weeks that Uncle Archie and I will be discussing it! And just because I'm positively furious with you doesn't mean that I don't love you. It just means I'm angry and need time to adjust!"

Colin looks taken aback. "But why are you angry with me? You're married, too!"

"Yes, Colin," she says crossly. "But you were present at my wedding, because I wanted all the people I loved to be there with me. You didn't give any of us the same consideration."

"It... it wasn't like that, Mary. Not at all." His voice is too gentle, much to her irritation. "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to explain. We _had_ to get married –"

" _Had to_?" Mary feels her body sway; she must look aghast at the thought that Colin dared to get the girl pregnant on top of keeping the entire wedding a secret.

Colin rolls his eyes. "Oh, Mary, do shut up and let me finish! It isn't anything as to what you're thinking! We had to get married because Cindy's ex-fiancée was practically stalking her!"

"Then... you didn't marry because you love her?" This thought is worse than the idea of a pregnancy.

"Of course I love her. Cindy and I are mad about each other; we've been in love with each other for months. It all happened so quickly, though. We'd been falling in love in London, and she was called back to Boston because her father was taken ill quite suddenly. They didn't expect him to live. Cindy debated it for a few weeks before she told her fiancée that she didn't love him and couldn't marry him, and can you believe it? He actually struck her for it! That was when Mr. Harvey contacted me and requested I come straight away. He already knew that Cindy and I had feelings for each other and he was much more comfortable with our relationship than with hers and Randolph's. I did, in fact, help straighten out all of her father's accounts, as I said I was doing in the telegrams. But my being there also gave the two of us a chance to get to know each other much better. Worse, Randolph hadn't given up and he kept appearing at odd times, so as soon as her father passed away and was buried, she and I took an evening and went to her local parish and convinced the pastor to marry us in secret. Neither of us wanted Randolph to know about our marriage, so we left the next morning for a honeymoon. We didn't even tell the Harveys until after we'd left Boston."

"Don't you think," Mary asks sharply, "that Mr. Harvey could have assisted in all of this? You're so stubborn and hardheaded! Why didn't you ask for his help, Colin? Why did you have to do it all in secret?"

For the first time, Colin's temper flares in his eyes and she sees it. "Mr. Harvey had already reported the incidents to the police, who were doing nothing to stop Randolph. But he won't get near her again, I can promise you that. As it was, I felt Mr. Harvey had exhausted his efforts, and I was the only person in any position to do anything! I _do_ love her, Mary! Don't _dare_ say I don't. If I didn't, I wouldn't have done everything I have!"

"You told Dickon about her, back at Christmas," she says, resorting to the last attack she has. "You told him you were in love with her then, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me? Do you not trust me? Am I not close to you anymore?"

He looks stunned at this; the anger fades and for the first time in the argument he looks genuinely upset. "Of course I trust you; you're the closest relation I have aside from father! It wasn't like that at all. Dickon is all sense and practicality; he sees things differently than you or I do. I wasn't certain how to explain it to you or father at the time. It didn't mean I didn't _want_ to. And the more time that went by, the more everything was becoming more and more certain, and I was so far away from you that I thought if I bothered you about it, you would worry for me. And I didn't want you to worry. I knew you had too much on your mind here..."

"Oh, Colin, I wish you would stop being so selfish! You're just the same as you were when you were ten years old! Regardless of what I'm doing here, it will never mean I don't want to know what's going on in your life, or that I wouldn't wish to help you if I could. I feel as though you think of me as... as just a _little silly girl_ , who wouldn't understand. Or that perhaps you don't care about my feelings."

"That isn't true at all!"

"Or worse," she plunges on, "that I'm no longer in the same social structure as you are, and I fear Cindy may not wish to be friends with me either, for that same reason!"

"That's even less true then the first part!"

"Enough, both of you," Archibald suddenly interrupts.

Mary and Colin both fall silent, each suddenly sullen and upset.

"The two of you have been too close for too long to let something like this upset the balance of your friendship. Do you understand?"

They both answer "Yes, sir" at the same time, without looking at the other.

The garden door opens again, before Lord Craven can continue; the hinges grate against each other and when Mary looks up, Dickon is standing just inside the garden, beneath the trailing ivy. He looks at the scene before him, hesitates, and then says, "Martha asked me t' come fetch thee, Mary. She's prepared tea, as tha asked."

"Thank you." Mary pauses, nods to her uncle, and turns to Colin. She tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes, and so she stammers, "I'd best go see to our guest, then."

She leaves quickly, not wanting to give Colin a chance to apologize yet, and when she closes the door, Dickon is on the path, waiting for her. She doesn't want to burst into tears, but a few slip out just the same, and she is grateful when her husband comes forward and pulls her into a close hug.

"It'll be al'righ'," he whispers. "Tha'll see!"

"I hope so." She sniffles and rubs her wrists against her eyes.

"Aye, it will! Come on, then. Miss Cindy needs thee t' be her friend. She's all alone here, tha knows."

"Yes." Mary sighs and leans against him as they start back up the path. "She is. I know how she feels, I think."

"Tha was once alone here, too. When tha was a little girl, an' tha came to live wit' tha uncle."

She smiles at the memory. "I'm contrary again, aren't I?"

"A wee bit." Dickon squeezes her shoulders. "But it'll pass soon enow. Colin will make it up t' thee somehow, an' tha should forgive him."

"I will," she promises, "but I do want to make him squirm a bit first. He deserves that."

Dickon laughs. "If that isn' jus' like thee! Eh, I canna change thee an' I wouldn' want t'."

"I'm glad." She squeezes back.


	64. After Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from Disney's "A Goofy Movie", of all bloody things. LOL
> 
> ~BD

****

## After Today

****

She sits in bed, deep in thought as she gazes across the shadowy room towards the fire. The entire day has been overwhelming, and she isn't certain what to think.

Despite the fact that she's in love with Colin, she can't help but feel hurt and irritated with him for not telling his father, cousin, or closest friend that he had married her. And at the same time, a tiny voice in the back of her mind reminds her that she didn't tell _her_ closest friends, her butler or her cook (both of whom were as close as family), or the Harveys. She feels slightly guilty about this, but she won't be able to apologize to them for at least another couple of weeks; until they return to Boston to probate the will.

Her eyes slide from the fire to the portrait above it – a portrait of a beautiful young woman whose smile is full of laughter and whose eyes are agate-gray like Colin's. She wonders what his mother would think of her; if Lucinda Chloe Castor was what Lilias ever expected for her son. And unfortunately, thinking of Lilias reminds Cece of Colin's father. She shivers involuntarily. Lord Archibald Craven has been polite to her thus far, but she has only been at Misselthwaite since mid-morning and she wonders what he _really_ thinks of her. He seems very aloof and distant, though Colin has always spoken warmly of him.

Really, on the whole, she thinks miserably, the day has been tense and awkward; she feels slightly homesick and wishes she could curl up in the kitchen of her father's mansion, by the huge brick fireplace, with Mrs. Opal there to hand her a glass of warm milk. Though Mary was kind to her and handled the initial situation much better than Cece felt _she_ would have, had everything been reversed somehow, it was obvious that Mary was angry with Colin and, in turn, she hoped Mary wouldn't be angry with _her_. Dickon, to her surprise, though warm and friendly, hadn't said much to anyone all day, nor at dinner that evening. She hadn't imagined him so quiet and thoughtful, though she isn't certain exactly how she _did_ imagine him before she met him.

The door creaks open and she looks up as Colin shuts it behind him. He smiles at her, but she cannot manage to return it, so she looks to the fire again instead, afraid she might cry if she meets his eyes any longer than necessary.

A few moments later, he crawls into bed beside her and pulls her into a hug.

"What's wrong?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

Unable to contain herself, she chokes out, "Your father hates me, Mary is furious with you, and I don't even know _what_ Dickon thinks. And I'm mad at you," she adds as an afterthought, while burying her face in his chest just the same.

"I'm sorry, I really am," he says anxiously. "I did truly think that it would be a wonderful surprise! Believe me, no one hates you. Father likes you very much – he said he thought you were very sensible. And Mary adores you! I told you she would. As for Dickon, he's often quiet these days." He pauses, then sighs heavily. "He's much quieter then he was, since he came back from the war."

She wipes her face with the back of her hand and frowns up at him. "Well, I'm still annoyed with you."

"I know. I deserve it, I'm sure."

"You do."

"Tomorrow morning, after an early breakfast, I'll take you out on the moor. We can walk to Dickon and Mary's. Things will be better, then."

"I hope so. Because at the moment, I can't see how it will be."

"Trust me. It'll all be better tomorrow. The shock's worn off a bit and conversation will be easier."

She sighs and draws the blankets up to her chin. Colin stretches out beside her, pressed against her, with his arm over her waist.

"Just wait," he whispers in her ear, and his voice holds a hint of excitement. She feels her body tingle pleasantly despite her annoyance with him. "You'll love the moor in early morning. There's nothing like it. Except the garden. But there's something amazing about the moor at sunrise that I just... can't explain."

_The garden_. Mary has already taken her there. After her bath and change of clothes and a spot of tea, Colin's cousin insisted on bringing Cece to the place she had discovered so many years ago and brought back to life. Cece was surprised, because she had thought she would want Colin to show her the place he'd learned to walk... But somehow, the space felt more like Mary's than Colin's, and she realized once they walked through the door that Mary was really the only one who could show anyone the garden. It was as though she and the garden were kindred spirits together; she knew where every flower was and how to speak to every little thing.

"The garden _was_ wonderful," she murmurs softly, snuggling into Colin's warmth. "I'd like to go there alone with you one day."

She doesn't need to look at his face to know his lips have curved into a smile. "I was planning on it, love. Trust me."

"I'm still mad at you," she adds drowsily, more to needle him than anything else.

In response, he squeezes her and kisses the nearest place he can reach – her ear. She smiles as she drifts to sleep. Maybe he's right; maybe tomorrow will be better.


	65. That's What Friends Are For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief jump forward to 1930-ish: Mary, Dickon, Colin, and Cece tell their children how Colin and Cece came to be married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from Disney's "Jungle Book".
> 
> When I first posted this chapter, I confused a LOT of people. The reality was, I was totally stuck on the story and had no idea how to proceed with it, and get Mary, Colin, and Dickon past the emotions caused by Colin's elopement. So I decided to look BACK on the event from a future standpoint. I decided I would have their children ask to hear the story, and write backwards, as it were, to help me understand how the three (or four, when you include Cece) moved forward from the elopement. It was fun for me to do, but as I said, it confused a LOT of people.
> 
> So, this chapter looks back on the situation from 10 years in the future.
> 
> ~BD

****

## That's What Friends Are For

****

"I'm frozen!"

"My mittens are wet! Will you hang them on the rack for me, please?"

"Crumpets! I want one!"

"Is that hot chocolate, mummy?"

"Give me th' toastin' fork Richie!"

"When I'm done wit' it, then tha can 'ave it."

It takes several minutes to situate everyone by the fire; the girls want to make certain their wet mittens and scarves are hung properly to dry, but the boys don't care much and tumble onto the hearthrug together to continue fighting over the toasting forks and crumpets.

"Al'righ'," a stern but not unkind voice says. "There's enow for all o' thee. Take turns an' play fair, understand?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" echoes from the fireside and things grow quieter for a few moments. The first of the crumpets come out of the fire and are handed accordingly to the girls, hot chocolate is passed around, and the children eat in silence.

But, as usual, the edge of hunger (brought on by playing in the snow this evening) disappears and the older of the two girls looks up and says eagerly, "Can we have a story while we eat, please?"

"A story?" Her mother glances up from where she is writing a letter by the light of an old oil lamp on an antique table. "What sort of story?"

"One of Uncle Dickon's," her daughter says, beaming. "He tells the _best_ stories!"

A low chuckle answers this request. "Doesn' tha think thy's already heard all o' my stories, Chris?"

Chris's brother, Charlie, moans dramatically as he spears another crumpet on the toasting fork and rolls his eyes. "But you tell them so much better than _father_."

" _Hey_! I tell perfectly decent stories, thank you _very_ much! See if you ever get another one, then!"

The two ladies look at each other over the table and smirk; the one goes back to writing her letter while the other returns to her needlework.

The boy retaliates. "The other night, he wouldn't even tell us one when we asked!"

"What soart o' story did tha ask for, Charlie?" Dickon asks curiously.

"We asked him to tell us about the first time mum ever saw Misselthwaite, and he told us it was too late for stories and sent us to bed."

"Because there's nothing to tell!" his father says, a hint of finality in his voice. "Who wouldn't love it here?"

However, much to the children's surprise, the other three adults immediately disagree with him, in tones of incredible incredulity and amusement.

"Oh, do let _me_ tell that one!" The other lady abandons her needlework and comes to the fireside.

"Absolutely _not_!" The boy's father sputters, staring at her in horror. "You're _entirely_ too bias, Mary Lennox!"

"Oh, now you _must_ tell us!" Chris begs, turning large gray eyes to Dickon. " _Please_?"

Dickon sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "Eh, where t' even _start_ wit' that one..." he mutters sarcastically.

"Don't start at all," his friend tells him dangerously.

"Oh, by all means, Colin," Chris and Charlie's mother says sweetly, "Why shouldn't they know?"

"Because!" His ears turn slightly pink in the firelight.

"Because you're horribly embarrassed about what you did?" Mary asks coolly.

"Oh, do shut up," he snaps at her.

" _Please_?" All five children look horribly mischievous now, and Dickon can't help but laugh.

"Al'righ', then!" He smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly, his mouth wide and laughing, and he leans forward on his knees. "I'll tell thee in proper English."

They can tell it takes him some effort; he isn't accustomed to speaking proper English because he so often speaks Yorkshire dialect, but sometimes stories are best told in proper English, as Dickon has explained before to them.

"You see, your father," he grins once at Colin, who continues to look stony and frightful, "didn't tell anyone he was marrying your mother."

" _No one_?"

"No one at _all_?"

"No one at all. He didn't tell your grandfather, his friends, Mary, myself, or any of your mother's staff. They eloped, went to Italy, and then your father thought he'd surprise everyone here at Misselthwaite by bringing your mother around for us to meet."

The children laugh; the boys – especially Colin's son, Charlie – look as though this is a goldmine of information.

"So when he arrived, he shocked old Mrs. Medlock and Martha, and then he shocked Mary and your grandfather. 'Tis a wonder, really, that Mrs. Medlock and your grandfather didn't die of shock, I'll wager."

"Did he shock thee too, father?"

"Not exactly. I suppose you might say I already knew, soart o'."

"Like he knows everything else," the younger of Dickon's sons mutters, crossing his arms and looking annoyed.

"Hmm." His father smiles. "Anyways, it was all such a shock that no one knew what to say or do for the rest of the week, hardly!"

"I felt right out o' place," Cindy says dryly, leaning against the back of the sofa. "No matter how beautiful it is, here. Took me six months t' learn Yorkshire, wit' Mary's help!"

"Why on earth didn't you at least let _someone_ know, father?" Charlie asks interestedly.

Colin looks mutinous and focuses on the book he's been reading, and doesn't answer.

"Oh, your father," Mary laughs, "thought it would be an excellent surprise!"

Cindy adds, "And if you waltz in here one day with a wife and you haven't told us Charles, I swear to heaven you'll regret it, young man."

"I wouldn't _dare_ do such a thing," Charlie says loftily. "I'm not like father."

"Ha!" His mother rolls her eyes. "Tha's _exactly_ like tha father!"

Mary suddenly frowns at her sons. "Or the two of you," she adds, pointing at them in turn. "I'll flay th' two o' thee alive, if either o' thee e'er does it, either!"

"Us? I'd never do something like that."

"Me, either!"

"So... Does that mean _I_ can come home with a husband and surprise everyone one day?" The younger of the two girls looks up eagerly, her blonde hair shimmering gold in the firelight and her bright blue eyes, like cobalt, sparking.

Dickon blanches and looks completely unsettled at her question. " _What_? _No_! Tha most certainly canna, Lily!"

Colin smirks and cuts him off. "Don't listen to him. Of course you can, Lils. It would actually do your father a world of good."

Mary lightly slaps the back of her cousin's head. "Shut up, Colin. Don't give anyone ideas, least of all Lilias!"

"He can't help it," Cindy tells her friend. "It's his nature."

"Good grief! The way the three of you talk, I'm a perfectly horrible person!"

"Only when you brought your wife home to surprise everyone," Mary teases.

"So what eventually happened?" Richie asks, interrupting the adults' argument.

"Eh, eventually, the shock wore off. After a couple o' weeks," Dickon says thoughtfully.

"After your father, Richie, had a good long talk with Colin," Cindy adds, turning back to her letter.

"Wha' soart o' talk?" Phillip presses.

Dickon suddenly becomes mysterious. "That is entirely between me and your Uncle Colin."

"But –" Charlie starts to protest.

"No," Dickon says firmly. "No one will tell you that part o' th' story, ever. So don't ask."

"Never?" Chris looks crest-fallen.

"No, Chrissy. Never. Now, I think its time the five o' thee all took hot baths since you've all had somethin' t' eat, so none o' thee catches cold. Go on."

The children grumble and complain under their breath, but they do as they are told and trudge out of the parlor with their mothers, who remind them not to push and shove at the doorways or to trip each other on the stairs.

Once the parlor door closes and the room is almost unnervingly silent without the laughter, Dickon stands and crosses to the fire to add another log and stir the flames.

Colin's voice says thoughtfully behind him, "I've never forgotten that talking to you gave me back then, either. It was ten times worse than my father's. I don't think I'll ever forget it, to tell thee th' truth."

"I hope tha doesn'. Took me an entire night t' think it all out in me head b'fore I spoke t' thee. I didn' sleep a wink, I didn'. And Lord knows I didn' want t' be angry wit' thee. But still... Tha deserved it, I think."

"When you are truly angry," Colin adds, standing up to help Dickon with another log, "You're really quite terrifying. You didn't raise your voice to me at all during that hour, but I can assure you – I never want to see you lose your temper again." He smiles pleasantly at his friend, but Dickon's smile fades.

"Eh..." He shakes his head. "I dislike losing my temper. It doesn't feel natural, tha knows. I felt out o' place, angry wit' thee."

"I haven't ever made you angry with me again, have I?" Colin looks startled at the idea.

"No." Dickon chuckles and places the poker back in the stand. "Not before, and not since. I don't expect thy ever will again, really. Having children o' thy own changes thee, doesn' it?"

"Aye," Colin says, a bit dryly. "It does. It makes you think of everything you did as a child, and it makes you wonder why on earth you did it at all!"


	66. Brand New Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary and Cece spend a morning together, and Dickon has a talking-to with Colin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Melanie, released in 1971.
> 
> This chapter returns to 1920.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Brand New Key

****

Mary's house on the edge of the moor is as beautiful a place as Cece could have imagined, and to be quiet honest, she must credit herself with having seen countless beautiful places.

She temporarily forgets to wonder when the all of the tension and awkwardness of her arrival will dissipate, as her eyes follow the trailing rose bush slowly creeping over an arbor that welcomes guests onto the property. Behind the neatly packed stone wall is a newly formed garden; one day it will likely be a breath-taking haven.

The house itself, a comfortable, two-level country Victorian, is nothing as large as anything she has ever lived in, but the view of the blossoming moor stretching behind it into rolling purple and green hills is something money can't often buy.

She expects the four of them to enjoy the day together and get to know each other, but Dickon surprises her by asking Colin to accompany him on a walk. This leaves her alone with Mary (not that she minds), and two small kittens that are terrorizing the kitchen and their ankles (not that she minds that, either).

Conversation with Mary comes easily for the most part, for which Cece is thankful. In the hour they have alone, they discuss their upbringings and schooling, their preferences on dozens of things, and Cece's recent loss. They play with the kittens and Mary takes her on a tour of the modest, cozy house, shows her the quilt she made last autumn, and begins to serve tea, all before Colin and Dickon return.

To Cece's surprise, Colin (who was cheerful and cheeky only two hours earlier) now looks sullen and downcast. Startled, she turns to Dickon, but his expression is much more pleasant than her husband's, as he steps into the front hall and closes the door. When he turns to face the parlor, Colin has moved towards the fire with his back towards everyone, Mary is pouring tea and ignoring her cousin's mood, and Cece finally meets Dickon's eyes.

She's certain she's never seen eyes so _blue_ in her life. Perhaps she didn't really get to see them last night at dinner, or she would have remembered them more clearly. They sparkle and dance in the light, and they seem to pierce right through her, as though Dickon can read her as one would read a book. His smile doesn't fade when he realizes she is watching him. It just disappears. And then, she sees a real expression: serious and somber, something she never quite expected, before the smile returns and he tells Mary that he must return to the Misselthwaite and see to the lawns before the under-gardeners cut the grass incorrectly, for Lord Craven likes the grass to be cut in a diagonal pattern. Mary bids him farewell, and calls Cece to join her and Colin at the tea table before everything grows cold.

Colin remains silent for all of tea, to the point that Mary eventually notices and demands him to tell her what is wrong – he resolutely declines to answer her question and puts his teacup down to wander over to the sofa and play with the kittens like a sulky little child. Mary rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head, and asks Cece what her father's summer home in Vermont is like.

It isn't until lunchtime, when she is walking back to Misselthwaite with him, across the moor, that she asks him what on earth has gotten into him.

He shrugs moodily. "Dickon had a talk with me," he mutters.

A sudden thought strikes her and she asks suspiciously, "The two of you are still friends, aren't you?"

"Yes." His voice is petulant.

"Then... What's the matter?" She loops her arm into his and leans closer to him.

He keeps his hands buried in his trouser pockets. "He just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"What I did."

She stops and frowns at him, a small wave of fear building inside her. "Colin, can you please give more detailed answers? You aren't making the first bit of sense. Does he dislike me?"

" _You_? God, no! He thinks you're perfect for me and he hopes you and Mary will be close friends. No, he's..." He trails off and glances around the huge moor. Taking a deep breath, he mumbles, "I've never seen Dickon angry before, and I never want to see it again."

"Did he shout at you?" She can't imagine Dickon shouting, because he's so quiet, but perhaps she's misjudged him.

"No. Dickon never shouts. Dickon," he says bitterly, "looks _disappointed_. That's worse than shouting. Infinitely worse."

She can't help but feel a bit smug at this; it's good to know that someone, at least, can make Colin think about how his actions may affect others. "What did he say to you?" she asks curiously.

Colin rubs the back of his neck; the sullen look becomes a sad one. "I don't want to talk about it." He adds quickly, "I'm sorry, I really am, but it's got to remain between me and Dickon. I don't ever want to talk about it again, actually."

"Are you angry with him?" She feels scared again, because if he is, then that will make things difficult for all of them.

"Of course not. Not really. I know why he said what he did, and he knew that he risked my being angry when he spoke to me." Thoughtfully, Colin muses, "Perhaps that's exactly _why_ I'm not angry with him – because he was brave enough to talk to me in the first place about how I went about things."

"The way _we_ went about things," she reminds him pointedly, crossing her arms.

Colin chuckles, smiling at last. "Oh no, Dickon won't blame you at all. Never. Don't worry about it, Cin. It'll be alright. Come on, there are so many places I want to show you today, and it's already mid-morning."

"What about lunch?"

He holds up a small bag. "Mary made this for us. It's not much," he admits. "Just biscuits and sausage. I know it's not French cuisine, but it's really good."

She shakes her head, but smiles. "Sometimes that's the best – just something _good_. Alright, take me wherever you want, then."

He grabs her hand, his eyes lighting brightly as he puts Dickon's unknown conversation behind him. "We won't get to everything today. Or even tomorrow."

"I worked that much out for myself, thanks." She laughs.

And she is glad when he laughs with her and starts walking off into the moor, tugging her behind him.


	67. Everybody Plays the Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon and Cece have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Main Ingredient, released in 1972.
> 
> I confess, I put a teensy bit of Dumbledore in Dickon, having him be disappointed instead of raving mad, and being all sensible and logical and making bullet points. I also put a tiny bit of one of my ex-boyfriends in him, someone I'm still friends with, actually. In this chapter, Dickon makes a comment about how sad or frustrating events in life remind us that we are human and people love us. My ex told me that once after I had a bit of a disappointment with another guy, and I thought it rather profound at the time. He said it to be kind, and when I wrote this chapter, I thought it would be the sort of thing Dickon would say.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Everybody Plays the Fool

****

_\- Push with the heel of his hobnailed boots; a firm shove that makes the muscles in his leg tense and release._

_\- Move the handle once forward and once backward to loosen the dirt._

_\- Shift until his back curves forward and his knees bend; his left hand presses the handle downward, and his right hand curls around the base._

_\- Lift upward with the muscles in his right arm, keeping his right wrist steady._

_\- Flip. Repeat._

Somehow, the manual labor makes the jumble of thoughts in his head organize themselves into something more manageable, something more understandable.

Colin hasn't spoken to him in two days, and he can't help but wonder if his best mate is still his best mate. He'll have to find him before the end of the day and speak to him, if only to gauge his mood and see where they stand. But he still feels certain he did the right thing, regardless.

He hears the door to the second vegetable garden creak slightly; he doesn't bother to look over his shoulder because it's likely just the breeze or one of the under-gardeners, and he focuses on turning over another shovel of dirt.

Then, a female voice clears her throat behind him and he jumps, startled that someone crept up on him (something he hates, for it reminds him that he's not keeping his senses as sharp as he should, and the war suddenly flares to the front of his mind's eye for a brief moment before he jerks himself back to the present).

He half-turns at his waist, even further surprised to find Cece behind him, watching him closely.

Feeling rather self-conscious at the unusual interruption, he touches his cap politely and diverts his eyes to the earth again, unsure what to make of her random appearance – without Colin.

"Don't do that," she says sharply.

He straightens and turns to look at her again. Far from angry at her tone of voice, he is curious. "Do what?" he asks, remembering to use proper English. She's not very familiar with Yorkshire yet, after all.

"Act like you're a servant and I'm above you."

His eyebrows lift. "But I am a servant, Miss Cindy. And you are above me."

Her shoulders drop as she huffs in exasperation. " _Technicalities_ , as Colin would say. But you're his friend, and you're Mary's husband, and I don't want you to treat me as though I'm any different!"

He mulls this over in his head a moment, wishing he could turn over another shovel of dirt to put her words into better perspective. But that might be perceived as rudeness.

She plunges on, "I want you to treat me as a _friend_ , Dickon. If... if you would, please. If you _want_ to be friends with me."

He gives her a half-smile. "O' course I do. I am sorry, I canna help it; I'm not used t' thee yet. Takes time, getting used t' someone new."

"I know, but we should start somewhere. I would like to be friends with... thee."

He remembers the first time Mary spoke Yorkshire, and can't help but think how odd it sounds coming out of Cindy's mouth in an American accent, and he barks a laugh without thought.

She manages a weak smile. "It sounds dreadful when I speak it, doesn't it?"

"No," he insists, still chortling. "No, really! It doesn't. It just... sounds a bit different. Tha'll forgive me, I hope? I didn' mean t' laugh."

"You're doing it again," she says, suddenly sullen. "Acting like a servant. Please stop that!"

He sobers. "Cindy, I _am_ a servant. I'm a gardener, and Lord Craven is my employer. Having married his niece has little to do with my position here; rather, it changed _Mary's_ position." He tries not to think of how it's changed Mary's position for the _worst_ , in society's sense.

"Colin doesn't see it that way. And I won't see it that way, either."

"Colin," Dickon says, a bit mulishly as he pushes the shovel hard into the ground, "Is sometimes a bit idealistic."

"Yes. I know."

"And a bit sheltered."

"So am I. But I don't _want_ to be."

He shakes his head, cringing because he knows he's going to speak the truth and risk her friendship, too. "It's hard to not be sheltered when you've grown up wealthy. Not that it's a bad thing to have money. But it's hard to see the world in other ways, when you're used to having nice things and plenty to eat and a warm bed all of the time."

But, instead of being angry, she says, "Yes, that's what I mean. I see how Mary loves her life here, with you, and I think of all of her old acquaintances that wouldn't understand why she chose what she did. I didn't either, at first. When Colin originally told me of you and Mary last summer, I was completely baffled..."

"Baffled?" He smiles over his shoulder. "As to why she'd marry me, and not someone in London?"

Cindy's face flushes, and she looks embarrassed.

Dickon chuckles and pushes the shovel down again. "I still wonder it myself, if it makes thee feel better about it."

" _You_?" She sounds stunned.

He pushes his cap back and sighs. "Aye. Mary could have had anything, anyone. And she chose me, and this." He gestures around the vegetable garden. "I still canna believe it sometimes. She chose to move _down_ in life, rather than _up_. I told thee that her position had changed."

"I suppose that's why it's love. If it wasn't love, it wouldn't have worked out the way it did."

"Aye, I suppose so."

After a couple of seconds, she asks abruptly, "May I ask what you and Colin discussed a couple of days ago?"

Dickon is silent for a few moments, before he replies slowly, "Colin's personality is such that he does what he wants, when he wants, and without much regard for anyone else. If _any_ regard for anyone else. He's been that way since I met him, when he were ten years old. Part of it comes from wealth; he's used to having his way and people giving it to him. Take me, now. I grew up in a cottage with younger brothers and sisters to spare, an' you can't have your way when everyone else wants theirs, too. You learn to share. Mother always said the world was an orange, and no one owned the whole thing. But Colin grew up alone, and people pacified him to avoid his tantrums. And sometimes, even now, he needs to be reminded he doesn't own the whole orange. That you can hurt the people you love by not thinking about them, too. He's old enough to know better. And he's heard mother tell the story about the orange more than once."

"Hmm. He still throws tantrums. Maybe not thrashing about, but he was as sullen as I've ever seen him, yesterday."

Dickon pushes the shovel back into the earth. "Does him good to be reminded of things he doesn't want to hear. Does us all good to hear things we don't want to hear sometimes. It lets us know we're human, and that there are others who rely on us and love us. Just as love and pain and other emotions remind us of who we are."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a smile blossom across her face. "When I first met Colin, I knew I would like you, too. He always speaks of you so highly, as though he can't decide if you're his mentor or his brother. I was afraid, yesterday, that the two of you might have fought too deeply."

"Eh, I hope not! I wouldn't want Colin to resent me for telling him that he should have gone about things a bit differently. But he did needs to understand how it made Mary and Lord Craven feel, and why they were upset."

"I agree. And, on that note, I hope you'll forgive _me_. I'm more to blame than Colin is, because it was my idea in the first place."

"Tha'd lost thy father and been betrayed by th' man who'd been courtin' thee, all at the same time! I don't blame thee at all."

"That's justification, and I won't have it."

He grins at her fire; she reminds him a bit of Mary. Even the narrowed expression in her eyes as she glowers at him. He says, in an amused tone, "Verra well then, I'll blame thee too, if it make thee feel better."

"It _would_ make me feel better. I should have been more thoughtful to those who loved me, too." Cece suddenly looks upset. "When we return to Boston, I'll have to apologize to the Harveys – who have treated me as a daughter for years! – as well as my butler and my cook, who have treated me the same way, and since I was born. They didn't deserve my running off and eloping any more than Mary or Lord Craven did. I feel terrible about it. I'm not sure I can ever forgive myself."

Dickon shoulders his shovel and walks to stand in front of her. "Do you love Colin?"

"Of course I do!" she blurts, starting and staring at him as though he's crazy for asking such a thing.

"Then tha'll forgive thysel'. All tha has t' do, see, is t' jus' think o' how furious Randolph'll be when tha returns t' Boston married t' a man ten years his junior, who's better than he is in so many ways, and tha'll forgive thysel'!"

For a second, she gapes at him, as though she can't believe he would ever have thought of such a wicked thing, before she bursts into laughter. "Oh, God! Dickon, that's _horrible_!"

He laughs with her. "Well, I canna have thee thinkin' I'm all serious and mystic, like those priests in India that Mary once told me about years ago! Always sittin' and chantin' and bowin' and speakin' words o' wisdom? I'm just a moor lad, tha knows."

"Not to worry! I won't make that mistake again." She grins at him. "But regardless, you are an enigma, Dickon."

"Don't know wha' th' word means, but as long as tha's not insulting me," he says cheekily, while gesturing back towards the path for her to walk ahead of him, "I'll accept it as a compliment."

"It means that I can't figure you out yet, and to be quite honest, I'm not sure I ever will."

"Eh, it's easy enough. I'm like the moors and the sky and the garden."

"That's more of a riddle than anything else."

"Well, I don't know as anyone's as easy to read as a book," Dickon muses thoughtfully, as they walk into the next garden. "Everyone has something they don't want others to discover."

She nods soberly. "Yes, I think you're right. I once thought Colin was easy enough to read, until the night I found out that he'd been an invalid for ten years of his life."

"Took a lot for him to tell thee that, I'm sure. He doesn't like people to know."

"No. And I can understand why. But I think that was the moment that I truly began to _respect_ you and Mary. Instead of just _liking_ you," she adds, stopping at the door of the first vegetable garden and smiling at him. "That you loved Colin enough, even then, to save him! And that you love him enough even now, to remind him that he isn't the rajah he sometimes thinks he is."

"Eh, tha said it earlier – I think of him as a brother, just as he thinks o' me. And I'll think o' thee as a sister, if tha won't mind."

"I'd like that. Very much." She smiles brightly at him, and he feels a small weight lift out of his stomach.

"I've got t' speak t' Colin again b'fore th' day is out," he says quietly. "And make certain he's not too upset. Where is he?"

"He's writing a couple of letters, but he told me he would meet me out here after he finished. He said he wanted to see what you were up to this afternoon."

"Well, I'll walk thee back to the terrace, and meet him when he comes out."

They smile at each other, and Dickon can't help but think how his mother was right yet again. _Things'll always work out_ , she'd said once when he was younger and had had a rough day. _Jus' wait 'til th' 'morrow._


	68. Right Back Where We Started From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin and Cece depart for Boston, and have farewells on a train platform with Dickon, Mary, and Lord Craven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Maxine Nightingale, released in 1976.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Right Back Where We Started From

****

The train whistle is shrill, and though still distant, it signals that they are quickly running out of time.

"You'll write to me?" Cece gazes hopefully at Mary.

"Of course! And you will write to me?"

"Every week, I imagine! I hope we shall be back here soon enough – at least before autumn..."

"That all depends," Colin complains from behind her. "Large estates aren't settled quickly, you know. It may be closer to Christmas before we return."

"Mr. Harvey has already begun to settle the estate," Mary reminds him, while grasping hands with Cece, who looks disappointed at Colin's remark. "I'm sure it will go quickly. Do be careful, both of you. I shudder to think what your old fiancée will do upon your return."

"As do I," Cece agrees nervously. "Perhaps he will avoid us, though. I'll let you know what happens."

The locomotive is in sight now, chugging slowly as it approaches tiny Thwaite Station.

Colin turns to Dickon while Lord Craven says goodbye to his new daughter-in-law.

"You will take care of things here, won't you?" he asks anxiously.

"Aye, I will, as I always do," Dickon says stoutly. "An' tha be careful, as Mary says. Randolph'll be righ' mad at thee, I'll warrant. I half-wish I could be wit' thee, though I know tha can take care o' thysen."

Colin nods as he watches as the train comes to a halt, the pistons releasing steam and the engine breathing as though it were alive. "Aye, I can. But part o' me wishes tha was goin' t' come wit' me, too."

Dickon smiles sadly. "I'm afraid I'm not ready t' get on a ship again jus' yet. Maybe one day, but not yet."

"I know. And I understand. I'll telegram thee as soon as we arrive in Boston."

"That would be nice," Lord Craven agrees. "And once a week afterwards would be nice as well, just to know you are both well."

Mary and Cece hug tightly and Colin and Dickon move forward to help the porter load the luggage; Lord Craven watches the proceedings with a detached sort of expression. The conductor comes along the short platform a few moments later and hands Cece up the steep steps to a first-class parlor car. Colin follows her, and they both take a window seat so they can wave goodbye.

The whistle sounds, sharp and shrill, twice. The train lurches forward and the wheels began to creak back into motion; Mary and Dickon wave back and watch until they are out of sight around the far bend, heading towards Leeds.

After the silence of the moor has pressed upon their ears for at least two minutes, Lord Craven says wearily, "Well, there's no sense standing about here. We'd best head back. I've some letters to write. Mary, Dickon?"

He turns and heads down the steps towards the car, where John is waiting for them.

Mary links her arm into Dickon's and sighs. "I hope they will be back soon. But at least you made up with Colin before he left."

"Aye," Dickon agrees. "I was righ' worried about that."

"Are you sure he wasn't too angry?"

"No, he said he was righ' glad I'd taken him aside and talked to him." Dickon smiles at her. "Colin is sensible, tha knows. Despite everything else."

"Well, then. Now all we've to do is wait." She gazes across the landscape, towards the tiny village of Thwaite. "Oh! But it will seem so lonely without them. I daresay I'll miss Cindy terribly."

Dickon laughs. "An' when he arrived wit' her, tha was ready t' thrash him, tha was!"

"Indeed!" She giggles and stops by the car, peering in through the window before Dickon can open the door. "Uncle? Does tha mind if Dickon an' I walk back across th' moor t' Misselthwaite? Th' under-gardeners have all th' work goin' wit'ou' him, an' 'tis a graidley mornin'."

"Very well," her uncle responds. "John?"

"Aye, sir." John nods and starts the car; it rumbles and bumps off down the dirt road towards the village, and Mary smiles mischievously up at her husband.

"Tha's a wench, Miss Lennox. Tha knows that, righ'?"

"Eh, wha' a horrible thing t' say about thee wife!." She wraps his arm around her waist. "It _'tis_ a graidley morning! I weren't lyin' about that, an' will be nice t' walk o'er th' moor."

"An' wha' does tha want t' do out in th' moor?"

She doesn't answer, but smiles prettily up at him, and together they began to skirt around the village until they are out of sight of it, and well into the rolling green hills amongst the occasional grazing sheep.


	69. Love American Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cece and Colin arrive in Boston and reunite with Cece's staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the theme song to the American TV show of the same name, which aired in the 1970's.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Love American Style

****

The moment they step into the foyer from the vestibule, Mrs. Opal sweeps him into a crushing, bone-cracking hug; then she releases him and shakes his shoulders roughly, even though he is six-one and a good four inches taller than the hefty cook.

"Sneaking off in the middle of the night and leaving a note for us all to find?" she exclaims volubly. "Land's sake, you'll be the death of us all, won't you? Is _that_ how they do it over in England, hmm?" But her eyes are sparkling and he knows she's not truly upset.

She turns to Cece before he can respond and tilts the girl's face so she can see it better, and eyes her critically. "You do look _much_ happier," she declares. "But I don't know, Miss Cindy; I think he's trouble." Her eyes dart once to Colin and her lips twitch as she fights not to smile.

Jamison doesn't even try not to grin as he bustles back into the foyer from hanging up their traveling coats. "Well, the situation being what it was..."

Mrs. Opal barks out a loud "Humph!" before she adds darkly, "Rumor has it that when Mr. Garrett found out what'd done happened, he went into a towering rage for an entire _day_! He's tried to drop by at least once, but Mr. Harvey put a stop to _that_. Told him not to come back at all. I've heard he's been trying to find out where you went, but none of his contacts in England could help him."

Colin feels slightly numb at this news, but he doesn't voice his opinion. Cece, he notices, has grown a fraction paler as well.

Frowning suspiciously at her cook, she asks, "How did you find that out?"

Mrs. Opal looks smug. "Heard it from Mrs. Brown, his housekeeper. She put her resignation in after he pitched such a fit; left him to go to work for the Hopewells. Told _me_ in confidence she feared for her life, but of course she couldn't tell old Mrs. Hopewell that, _or_ Mr. Garrett that. Of course, Mr. Garrett wasn't too happy about her leaving him, either. Had to find another housekeeper on the double and I hear he had a right hard time of it. He's still engaged to that rich heiress girl, that _Miss Johnson_ , so I can only imagine he must've done bribed her father with enough money to choke an elephant."

Cece looks up at him, worried. "Maybe we shouldn't have come back just yet."

"We had to come back," he reminds her. "Your father's will, remember?"

"Well, that's nearly completed." Mr. Harvey's voice interrupts the conversation, and Colin eyes him nervously as the older Englishman enters the foyer from the back hall. He can't seem to decide if he wants to look stern or pleased, but after a few moments of awkward silence, he finally says, "Oh, come then, Cindy. You'd best give me a hug before I box your husband's ears for whisking you off the way he did."

"Now don't you blame Colin," Cece responds with mock severity, waving her finger at Mr. Harvey. "It was _my_ idea!"

Mrs. Opal can't help but laugh at this. "Lord! I should've guessed, I should. You _are_ a bad influence, Colin Craven!"

He can't help but smile cheekily at her, despite the fact that Randolph's more recent actions have put him out of most of his good humor. "Well, I have to be good at _something_ , don't I?"

At this remark, Cece gives him a coy smile over her shoulder that makes his skin tingle. Fortunately, no one else seems to notice her expression, for Mr. Harvey is speaking again.

"Well, in a couple of days, we can visit the Judge and settle nearly everything, I imagine. Cece, you'll have to decide what you want to do with all of your father's estates – including this one."

Cece looks up at Colin again, her coy smile suddenly gone and a different question behind her eyes. He nods slightly to let her know that he understands, before he says to Mr. Harvey, "Yes, sir."

Mr. Harvey chuckles. "Oh, go on, you two. Go upstairs and settle back in. You must be tired from so much traveling."

"A little," Cece admits sheepishly. "Are you terribly angry with us?"

He smiles warmly. "No. I rather expected it, to be perfectly honest. But, upstairs. Get some rest before dinner and we can discuss particulars this evening."

Cece nods, tucks her hand into Colin's arm, and they head up the stairs while Mrs. Opal announces that she will continue with dinner and Jamison states that he will send for their luggage.

Only when they are in Cece's old bedroom and Colin has locked the door behind them does Cece exhale in relief, sit down at her old vanity, and began unbuttoning her shoes. Colin follows her example and shrugs out of his jacket, pulls of his cravat, toes out of his shoes rather than taking them off properly, and unbuttons his cuffs.

Still, before he quite realizes it, Cece is in suddenly front of him, her deft hands unfastening the buttons of his shirt. She leans forward and her lips brush his undershirt, leaving damp marks and sending shivers down his spine, and he moans softly.

"I-If you don't stop, we'll might get in trouble..."

Her arms twist around his neck and she leans her head against his chest and sighs. "I don't care," she murmurs, her voice quite content. "It's not like anyone is going to burst in the door; you locked it."

Colin wraps his arms about her small frame and rests his cheek in her hair. "I know. But still... before you get carried away, why don't you tell me what you were thinking downstairs?"

She sighs again, but this time it is far from content; it is rather petulant. "The house. _This_ house. I want to sell it."

His brow furrows as he tries to make sense of this. This mansion has been Cece's home since she was born; he wonders how far back it dates. He hasn't thought to ask her yet, so he does so, now.

She shrugs and pulls out of his embrace, and goes to unfastening the buttons down her dress. "My great-grandfather built this house in 1867, as a wedding gift for my grandfather."

He is startled by her flippancy in wanting to sell off something that has familial value. "But then... why would you want to sell it? It's quite a nice house. Large, plenty of rooms, nice fireplaces, crowned molding..."

She cuts him off as she slides out of her dress, leaving her in nothing more than a slip and a loose corset without boning, and sheer stockings. "It means nothing to me, Colin. I wish I could say I wanted to keep it because of all of that, but we don't need it. Not with your estate in Yorkshire and your townhouse in London. And don't look at me like that; your father isn't likely to leave either to anyone else, now is he? The taxes alone on this place will make it foolish to keep. We won't be in Boston very much once the estate is settled, will we? I enjoy London more, and when we come to the States, we can use one of father's other homes."

"The summer estate on the Rhode Island coast, or the one in Vermont?" he asks dryly. Both are large and sprawling; the taxes on them aren't anything to sneeze at.

"I was hoping to keep both of them, if that's financially possible." She lays her corset on the chair to the vanity. "I was hoping that by selling the main house, the summer estates would be more feasible."

"It would be one less thing to worry about, I suppose. But what of your staff? Are you just going to send them to one or the other? Or we could bring them with us. I'm not particularly attached to my part-time staff at the townhouse, except for Carton. And he and Jamison might get along quite smashingly."

"I thought we would have a family discussion this evening. I'd like to get their opinions before I send them off. I mean, they're like family to me, and I love them. I want them to be happy with what we decide."

He pauses as he thinks about Mr. Castor's summer estates, and says slowly, "The summer estates are going to require more than a cook, a butler, and a maid, Cin. Even if they agree to go to one or the other."

"Yes, I know. Father has part-time staff at both, on a seasonal basis."

He is aware of this; he's gone through the accounts and bankbooks, after all. "Still..."

"They'll be closed up half the year, Colin. There won't be any costs associated with them if we aren't using them. Except the taxes, of course. And during the part of the year that they're closed, they would only need a minimal staff. Jamison and Mrs. Opal and Alice would be enough. Plus a gardener."

"How old are those estates, incidentally?"

"Not as old as this one. Father built the one on the Rhode Island coast in 1899, as a birthday gift for my mother. My grandfather built the estate in Vermont in 1875." She sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to roll down the sheer stockings. Thoughtfully, she asks, "Do you think we could find a buyer for this mansion?"

"Likely." He tugs his undershirt over his head and can't help but feel rather pleased when she pauses in her task and watches the muscles in his abdomen ripple at the movement. He tosses it across the chair with her corset and says, "I just don't want you to regret selling it. You've lived here your entire life, Cindy." He sits down beside her on the bed and brushes a stray curl from her shoulder."We don't have to sell it right away either, you know. We can think on it for a year before we decide."

"Mm. Maybe so." She sighs again and drops the stockings unheeded to the floor, then twists and lays down across the plush, plump pillows and stares at the ceiling. "I don't know; part of me wants to get rid of it entirely, and just move on. It's part of my past and I just want to start fresh."

Colin chuckles and shifts to stretch out beside her, propping himself up on his elbow. "You did. You ran off and eloped with a bloody Englishman. And besides, you're only nineteen – you don't have much of a past yet, as Dickon would so wisely say."

She smiles up at him. "Maybe so. Alright, we can wait on it." Her hands are inching around the waistband of his trousers and her fingertips flutter across his stomach. He hisses as the contact and leans down to pepper kisses up her neck.

"Let's just think about it later," he agrees huskily.

It is her turn to chuckle. "You are _so_ terribly predictable, Colin. Mary did tell me that; I didn't believe her at the time."

"I don't want to think about much of anything right now," he teases. His hand has started to bunch her shift up to her waist.

"Me either," Cece whispers.


	70. Daily Nightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Mrs. Opal have a discussion about moving, Cece, and Jamison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1967.
> 
> When I originally wrote this chapter, I wasn't sure where to take the story next. One of the things I wanted to bring out was Jamison's background, because it was in my head from the moment I created him.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Daily Nightly

****

Colin has nearly fished the milk out of the icebox when he hears Mrs. Opal clear her throat behind him. He jumps and twists to look at her, trying not to look too guilty in the light of the flickering candle she is holding as she frowns at him through the darkness.

"So you're a milk thief, too?" she suggests dryly.

"Only when I can't sleep. Who else is a milk thief?"

She shakes her head and places the candle on the scrubbed table in the middle of the cavernous kitchen. "Miss Cindy. I can't tell you the times I've caught her snitching a glass of milk in the middle of the night!"

He pours himself a glass and grins sheepishly at her. "Want one?"

Mrs. Opal rolls her eyes. "Oh, go on, then."

A moment later, they sit opposite each other at the table that is typically used for preparing food, and Colin grows sober as he looks about the dark kitchen in the tiny candle light. It almost looks ghostly, unreal. Almost as if the decision they made this evening took effect immediately and the house knows that it will be occupied by the current inhabitants for only a short while longer.

"So why can't you sleep?" Mrs. Opal queries, watching him closely.

"Too many things on my mind, I suppose. You?"

"Oh, I found myself thinking about Miss Cindy, wanting to sell this house. And when my mind starts running 'round and 'round itself, I know there's no use trying to sleep."

"How do you really feel about the decision?" he asks, suddenly becoming anxious and curious. "About her wanting to sell this house?"

Mrs. Opal sighs heavily, and in her quilted dressing gown and nightcap, she looks quite old. "It's Cindy's choice. And really, I'm rather glad she does want to sell it. Ever since all of the kafuffle with Mr. Garrett, I've wanted to leave Boston entirely. Cindy deserves better, and I've no family left here. I'm ready to move on and I had hoped she would be, too. I didn't want to leave her – she's like my own daughter in some ways, but I was hoping she would want to leave, and then I could go with her. And you, now. It must sound strange – why would an old lady want to heave up and leave the only place she's ever known? But it's time for something new, I think. It's time for a change."

"What about Jamison? How does he feel about it?"

"Old Jamison? The same, I reckon. Jamison was born in Baltimore to a seamstress in the middle of the war –"

"The War Between the States?" Colin feels startled by this information. He's never thought of Jamison's past; the cheerful butler always seems to live for the present.

"The same. His mother was born a slave. Being a house slave though, and with a serviceable trade, she had it better than most. As a seamstress she was able to hire her services out to others when her master allowed her to, which was often enough, as I understand it. Some masters were really quite horrible; Jamison's mother had a fairly good one. But she was still a slave, regardless. She was still owned by another human being. So, when the war ended and she found herself free, she decided to travel north in search of work."

"What happened to her?"

Mrs. Opal smiles sadly. "Work was scarce regardless, and they struggled. She died of consumption when Jamison was about fifteen. About 1879-ish, I suppose."

"And Jamison?"

"With no family left that he knew of, he went place to place until he was hired by Mr. Castor in 1882."

"Does he like what he does? Or does he wish to do something else?" Colin must admit, he has no experience or knowledge about anyone who was born into slavery, and he never thought that Jamison had been born into such a life.

"He once told me that he thought of Mr. Castor as a friend, not an employer. And of Miss Cindy as a daughter or niece. He is happy with what he has, happy with his position. Some wouldn't be – some would want more, and would accuse Jamison of not wanting more – but the key to life is to do something you enjoy. Jamison would be the first to tell you that."

They fall silent for a while, before Colin sighs and looks down at his half-empty glass. "London is a long ways away from the States. Would it be too far? Would you rather stay here, at one of the summer estates?"

"Ah, you like your own cook in London better than me, do you?" There is teasing sarcasm in her voice.

"The only servant I have in London that I'm particularly fond of is my driver, Carlton. I prefer your cooking to nearly everyone else's, except one. And she's a family friend, not a servant."

"You've never had life-long servants?" Mrs. Opal looks surprised by the idea.

"Oh yes, but only back at Misselthwaite. Not in London." He pauses, but smiles. "At Misselthwaite, we've Mrs. Medlock – our formidable housekeeper. She's a bit strict, but she means well. And then there's Martha, one of the maids, and as of late she's been training for Medlock's position. Medlock's quite old. Roach, our former head gardener, retired. John returned to his post once he returned from the Eastern Front. But we lost a lot of servants and groundskeepers to the war." His smile fades at the thought.

"Killed?" she asks sympathetically.

"No, actually. Well, a couple were. But most left the estate to work in factories and cities instead."

She nods once. "Thinking they'd get better wages, when all they find is a dirty, sooty city, more than like? Jamison told me once that that's what his mother said, after they'd spent a few years in Boston."

"I don't know if they found better wages or not. Maybe they did get paid better. I thought we paid them well enough, but I've never been in their situation, so I'm not particularly knowledgeable about that sort of thing, I suppose. But we're left with those who are closest to us, much as you and Jamison are close to Cindy. So I'm thankful for that. But in London, no. I've no servants except Carlton."

"Well, I wouldn't mind London much. Or the summer estates." She suddenly laughs. "Lord, but it's strange talking with you about it! Many employers would just tell a servant what they were to do, and if the servant didn't feel it was worth it, they would seek work elsewhere! You and Cindy are the only ones I know who would take my feelings, and Jamison's, into consideration!"

Colin twitches. "It would be callous, if not to say ludicrous, not to. You're both human beings, not a slaves. Furthermore, you've known Cindy her entire life!"

"You're unusual, Colin Craven. But I suppose that's why I like you," she muses.

"We probably won't sell the house for another year or so, at least. In the meantime, we'll finish up what remains to be done here and see about the other estates, and see what furniture and other things we want to keep, and what we want to sell off."

"Well, I'm in no hurry, except to get away from that horrible Mr. Garrett."

Colin smiles grimly. "Aye, th'nart th' only one."

"He'll come 'round the moment he knows you're back. You mark my words."

"I expect he will. Summer's just around the corner though. Maybe we should travel to the northern estate just to check on things?"

He and Mrs. Opal exchange a knowing look, one of complete understanding, and the cook says seriously, "Probably would be best. Mr. Castor hadn't been up there in a couple of years. I imagine the estate needs to be aired and freshened up. Cindy always enjoyed going there. It's nestled nicely against a pretty lake, in the foothills of the mountains."

"Well, that's settled then, isn't it? We'll leave within the week."

"I'll alert Jamison in the morning so we can help prepare to leave."

"Smashing idea."

They smile at each other, and drain their milk.


	71. This Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin visits Cece's summer estates.

****

## This Land

****

He has fallen in love again – this time, with the mountains of New England.

Cindy laughs at him, because she has been in love with these mountains since she was a child.

Jamison curiously notes that he becomes much more relaxed when he is away from society, and wonders if he is like that in England. (Cindy informs him that yes, he is, but only when they are in Yorkshire; not in London).

Mrs. Opal declares that he is much more energetic when he comes in from his morning jogs about the misty, sunlit grounds of Green Ridge, and he laughs at her as he heads up the back staircase to bathe before breakfast each day.

He asks Cindy if she would like to start running with him, but she declines and advises him that she has no desire to get all sweaty and hot at the break of dawn. She also reminds him that, while they were in Italy, he complained about waking up early.

He counters with the fact that Green Ridge reminds him very much of how he feels about Misselthwaite, and that he'll get up early here to see all of the sights. There are deer in the park; does she know that?

She knows. She knows quite a lot about Green Ridge, though she won't presume to know everything, because it is nestled in a sweet valley and there are all sorts of secret hollows and meadows and streams and trails to visit and discover. He whines all through breakfast every day for her to take him to these places, much to the amusement of the staff, and she eventually gives in and they wander out together for hours on end.

He suggests that if they stay there for any length of time each year, they should consider investing in a few horses.

She reminds him that they have another summer home on the coast, and they shouldn't buy a couple of horses without seeing all of their property.

He is reluctant to leave Green Ridge, but a month and a half later at Seagrass he insists that he loves Cindy's father's second summer estate even more. Green Ridge reminds him vaguely of Yorkshire, which he has seen his entire life; Seagrass is something entirely new. He has been to the seaside in England, but the American seaside is somehow different. Cindy shakes her head and watches as he pulls off his shoes and rolls his trousers up and slides down the dunes to the coast without even bothering to enter the mansion first, and Jamison sighs and makes a comment under his breath about how much he hates cleaning sand off marble.

The extended staff at Seagrass don't understand their mistress's strange English husband's ways any more than the extended staff at Green Ridge did. He runs down the wide corridors and up the stairs like a ten year old, but yet he does many things by himself that most wealthy young men would demand a servant do for them. He can build a fire in the hearth easily, he can pour his own tea and prefers to do so, he'll answer the door or the telephone if he's closest to it, and he'd probably cook his own meals if Mrs. Opal allowed him to try.

(She doesn't. She loftily declares that she won't risk burning a beautiful mansion to the grounds just because she let Colin Craven cook in her kitchen).

He does, in fact, burn something - his own skin on that first day, because he spends too long out by the water and he's so fair. Cindy can't help but laugh at him, even though it's really not funny, and tells him that she already knew better, because her skin is just as fair as his. But by the second week, the burn has subsided and tanned, and it certainly doesn't deter him from playing out of doors.

They receive a letter from the Harveys, who have returned to England, as well as letters from Mary, Dickon, and Lord Craven.

And before they know it, they have been at Seagrass for several weeks, and autumn is upon them. Cindy reminds Colin that they will need to return to England, that they have been gone too long.

He agrees, and as he lays awake that night, he reflects on how one can feel both ready to leave a place and, at the same time, reluctant.


	72. Hushabye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dickon make an urgent visit to Mrs. Sowerby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Mystics, released in 1959.
> 
> The "Old Wives Tale" technique used by Mrs. Sowerby is probably inaccurate for Yorkshire, I honestly don't know. I swiped it from an old episode of "The Waltons", and I have no idea where it originated. Probably historically inaccurate but hey, just run with it.
> 
> ~BD

**Hushabye**

She feels...

Off.

As though something isn't quite right.

She catches sight of her face in the mirror in the hall and she frowns at her pasty complexion; she looks ill. Perhaps she is coming down with something?

But before she can think on it, she hears a knock downstairs at the front door. She shakes herself and hurries to welcome her mother-in-law for the morning. After their usual greetings, they set off for the kitchen; Susan has brought a large basket of herbs for drying. Within moments, Mary has forgotten her reflection in the mirror and besides, if Susan Sowerby hasn't noticed if anything is wrong, nothing must be.

Four days later however, as the sun is dipping lower in the sky and she is preparing supper, it strikes Mary again that she feels strange, and then it abruptly occurs to her what the problem _might_ be.

Dickon finds her ten minutes later, pacing the kitchen floor, one hand tangled in her blonde hair and the other making motions in the air in front of her, as though she is trying to come up with a solution to a problem. She is muttering softly under her breath, counting. He is halfway out of his suspenders when he sees her, and he stops and watches her curiously for a few seconds, mesmerized by her anxious movements and a bit unnerved at fact that she didn't hear the front door open and close, nor the heavy thuds of his boots as he took them off in the hall so as not to track mud through the house.

"Eh, love? Wha's th' matter?"

She freezes her in movements and turns sharply to stare at him, her eyes wide and startled. "Dickon! I didn't hear you come in!"

"Aye, I noticed. I'd hate someone else t' come in, an' tha not hear. Wha's wrong?"

She wrings her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers. "Dinner's almost ready," she says, avoiding his question. "If tha'll give me a few minutes, I'll set th' table an' we can eat."

He shakes his head, not in the least fooled by her attempt to dissuade him. "N'er mind dinner. Wha's th' matter, Mary? Why was tha pacin' about, all in a world o' thy own?"

Her hands drop limply to her sides and she sighs. "Well, the truth is... I don't _know_ what's the matter. Not for certain, anyways. And this isn't how I wanted to tell you, either. I'd rather _know_ first. I mean, _really know_ , and not just _guess_."

"Tha's not makin' th' first bit o' sense."

She sighs. He won't rest until she tells him, but this _definitely_ isn't how she would have wanted to tell him.

"I... well... I think... I don't know for certain! But I think I'm..." She winces slightly and blurts it out anyways. "I think I'm pregnant! But as I said, I don't know for certain! I need to speak to your mother. She was here just four days ago and I should have asked her then, but I didn't _realize_ then, so I didn't think to ask her. I'll go there tomorrow, and... Oh, Dickon, I shouldn't have told you because if I'm _not_..."

But the trouble is, he hasn't heard half of what she's said, for he sucked in a sharp, quick breath back towards the beginning of her stammering, and it seems as though his hearing is fading in and out.

"...maybe I'm just ill, Dickon. That could be it, I haven't felt right the past week, and it could be something as simple as a stomach flu, except... Well, I haven't been vomiting. But then, I hear women _do_ become quite nauseated when they're pregnant, or some do at any rate, so I suppose I can't tell based on that... But there is _one_ thing, a way women know for _sure_ , and I was calculating it when you came in. That's why I didn't hear you." Her face is bright pink and she quickly looks away. "I'll go see your mother tomorrow morning; I'll walk over the moor when you go to the manor."

"Tonight."

Her eyes snap back to his.

"Tonight," he repeats, and he turns and practically runs back down the hall to the door, forgetting his suspenders and grabbing his boots. "I'll be back wit' her in a bit! No, no that's no good..." he mumbles, mostly to himself. "We should both go t' her cottage – I don' want t' leave thee by thysen, not if tha's...!" He fumbles with the laces, his fingers trembling, and he misses the knot twice. "But it's so far for tha t' walk! I can carry thee, that'd be better –"

Mary touches his shoulder and he looks up at her, wide-eyed, like a rabbit flushed from a hiding place. "I swear, tha's a wonder, thy is!" she declares, unable to decide if she should be amused or annoyed. "How many times 'as tha seen some creature givin' birth out on th' moor or in Uncle Archie's stables? Why should my being pregnant upset thee so? Did tha not want children?" She suddenly feels as though a stone has dropped into her stomach. Maybe he didn't. But surely he would have _told_ her if that was the case...

"O' _course_ I wanted...! How could thy _think_ otherwise? But this is _different_ from another creature out on th' moor!" he bursts, looking as though he can't decide if he's terrified or thrilled.

She tugs on his shirt until he is standing again, and she hugs him. "Oh, Dickon. No. It's not different. But this isn't how I wanted thee t' find out! I wanted t' _surprise_ thee! T' find thee in th' garden an' tell thee that way, all happy and excited! Not like this, not even knowing proper-like. Not both o' us scared and upset." She feels quite miserable, really, when she stops and thinks about it. She should have planned so much better then this – she should have surprised him properly.

He pulls her into a crushing embrace. "We'll walk t' mother's," he whispers, his fingers tangling into her hair. And before she can argue, he kisses her sharply. She can feel him trembling; feel his fingers shaking as they cup her face.

"Thy looks pale," she admonishes, leaning back to look up at him. "Maybe _I_ should walk t' tha mother's."

"Donna jest 'bout somethin' like that. Come on."

"But...supper!"

"It'll be fine, Mary. Come on."

"It will not! I canna leave it on th' stove; it'll burn! Tha doesn' wan' t' come back t' the house on fire, does tha?" She pulls out of his grip and hurries back to the kitchen.

As she goes about moving things around and taking their dinner off the fire, she can feel his eyes watching her anxiously. When she finally has everything tidy, he looks ready to forcibly drag her out of the house, but she finds that with Dickon's increasing anxiety, her own is subsiding substantially. With measured steps, mostly to irritate him, she returns to the front hall and slips into a wrap. When Dickon suddenly hovers right behind her, trying to help, she complains, "Oh, honestly, Dickon. I'm not going to break! I may not even be –"

He ignores her, looking mulish and stubborn, and Mary sighs as they step out onto the moor and begin to walk over the rolling hills. She endures his hissing breath every time she falters in a dip or nearly steps in a rabbit hole; she manages to snap at him only once that she's perfectly fine (granted, that was when he tried to carry her up a hill), and by the time they arrive at the Sowerby cottage, both are more than slightly moody and surly.

Jane meets them and hugs her brother while Hannah and Thomas dart back inside, yelling for their mother that Dickon and Mary have come to supper.

Susan steps out, flushed and smiling. "Oh! It's so good t' see thee both! I've made stew t'nigh'," she says eagerly. "There's plenty t' go 'round –!"

"No," Dickon says quickly, cutting her off. "We're not here for supper, mother."

Her face falls at this, and Mary decides it best that she take over before Dickon can blurt everything out.

"I was going to come visit you tomorrow morning, but Dickon insisted we come tonight, Mrs. Sowerby. I haven't felt well for the past week or so. It may be nothing, but I was wondering if... if I mightn't be..."

Susan's eyes suddenly flare and her face practically glows as she catches her daughter-in-law's meaning; she takes Mary's hands and nearly squeals.

Dickon interrupts, "Can tha tell if she is or not, mother? Please? Wit'out lettin' any o' th' others know jus' yet?"

"Aye, I can! Inside, both o' thee! Oh! I am all a flutter, I am! How excitin'! Eh, I knew thy'd be wit' child soon e'now, Mary. Th' two o' thee canna keep thy hands off each other, I reckon'd. Been like that since tha married!"

Dickon turns bright red at this assessment. Mary would laugh at his expression if she weren't so embarrassed herself; it seems that almost nothing escapes Susan Sowerby's notice. They follow her into the cottage, and after she sets the younger girls to get the table in order and the older ones to watch the pot on the fire, she beckons Mary to her bedroom and they follow. Mary can't help but feel exceedingly grateful that her mother-in-law may keep the fact more private then she first expected.

Susan closes the door behind them and says, "Now, lie on th' bed, dear."

Confused, Mary does as she's told; Dickon hovers at the footboard like a six-foot-four overprotective sheep dog.

Susan digs in her dresser until she finds a long ribbon, then returns to the side of the bed and takes Mary's left hand, pulls her wedding band off, and slips it onto the ribbon. She then dangles it over Mary's stomach, and for a brief moment, Mary can't decide whether to feel silly or overly curious.

"W-What are you doing?"

"This? Oh, 'tis jus' an ol' meth'd, but th' ol' ways work best," Susan says cheerfully. "Always worked on me, it did."

To Mary's surprise, the ring begins to swing slightly after a few seconds, back and forth, east to west. "What is it doing?" she asks, propping up on her elbows to watch.

"Eh! Tha's pregnant al'righ'! Tha's havin' a boy, I'll wager, if thy ring tells th' truth!"

Dickon looks nonplussed and sounds even more skeptical, which surprises Mary, considering that he grew up in Yorkshire amongst the folklore and old ways. "Tha can tell all o' that from a ring swayin' on a bit o' ribbon? I never saw thee do it when I was younger."

"O' course thy didn' know 'bout such things, it was somethin' girls knew, not th' boys! Besides, thy was always out on th' moor, playin' wit' thy creatures an' tendin' thy garden." Susan shrugs at his expression and slides the ring off the ribbon. "But thy knows now. Mary, I'll come out t' th' house t'morrow an' see thee! I'll go o'er ev'ythin' wit' thee."

Mary nods and sits up; a few minutes later they have said their goodbyes to all the others and are walking silently through the twilight back across the moor. However, once they reach the house and step through the gate, Dickon suddenly pulls her into a tight embrace.

Mary laughs softly at him. "Oh, th'ar't a wonder. Tha's birth'd enow creatures for any lifetime, an' tha's scared of thy wife havin' thy own son?"

"A little," he whispers, but she hears the chuckle behind the tears.

"I'll be perfectly fine. Why, we've still got nine months to go –"

"Eh, no. Seven or eight, at th' most. Tha's probably a month gone, I'd imagine." His brow furrows.

"Regardless. I don't like you to worry; it makes you look ancient."

"I canna stop, so donna try an' make me."

"My God, but you are the most _stubborn_ man I know."

"That's not true either." His eyes twinkle in the fading light. "I wouldn't presume t' take such a title away from Colin."

Mary bursts into laughter, so hard that Dickon must hold her upright. After a long moment, she giggles, "I've half a mind not to tell him. Make him see what it feels like to be surprised."

"Oh, good God in Heaven." Dickon sighs. "But tha is related to him, in't thee?"

"It seems that way, doesn't it?" she says loftily. And before he can respond, she says, "Come on, then! Into the house! I'm starved, and dinner's cold."

He can't argue with that, thankfully, and they quickly head inside to the kitchen.


	73. Good Day Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary has a conversation with the robin and with Ben Weatherstaff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Beatles, released in 1966.
> 
> I always enjoy writing the robin and Ben; they are fun to channel.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Good Day Sunshine

****

The robin watches her intently, his beady eye turned sharply to follow her as she moves amongst the summer roses, his head tilted as he listens to her prattle.

"...I couldn't tell if Uncle Archie was pleased or resigned when he saw me this morning." She huffs slightly and brushes a loose tendril of hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "It bothers me that he might not be happy that I'm going to have a baby, because _I_ am so happy. I suppose he's just growing old, to tell the truth, and he's simply tired. Colin doesn't see it because he isn't here, so I imagine it will eventually come as a nasty shock to him if something were to happen." She pauses, then inquires curiously, "Do you ever feel that way? That time is flying before you, and that there isn't anything you can do to stop it? These two days last, I've felt positively _old_ , and I'm most certainly _not_. Poor Uncle Archie. I can't imagine how he must feel sometimes."

The robin chirps. Yes, he knows what it is for time to whisk by as though the sun is moving particularly fast in its transition. Why, his little ones will be leaving the nest any day now!

"I cannot believe it has been over three months already, since I found out." She clips a couple of particularly large pink roses and places them in the basket on her arm. " _Don't_ tell Dickon, but a part of me is quite scared!" She laughs. "Sometimes I think Uncle Archie mightn't be right, that I'm awfully young, but then I suppose girls younger than I have had children before. I noticed his hair seems awfully gray though – Uncle Archie's, not Dickon's," she clarifies, before clipping another rose. "Although, if Dickon keeps worrying the way he is, his hair will likely turn gray, too."

The robin bobs. He has noticed, too. Lord Craven is aging, but that it is what happens to all living creatures.

"Yes," she sighs, placing a white rose in the basket. "I know. Sometimes I hate it. Cindy handled her father's death quite well, all things considered. But I somehow doubt Colin will be able to do the same. He would never want anyone to think that, of course. But I have a feeling that he will be devastated when Uncle Archie passes away. And Uncle Archie has had such a hard life since Aunt Lilias died, that I imagine he aged twice as fast as other people! His health isn't very good. It never has been." She touches a red rose before clipping it, as well. "It is strange to me, how people age differently. Ben is still alive, and God knows he must be pushing ninety! Yet I don't think Uncle Archie will live that long. I wonder if it is because Ben is always outside, working, while Uncle Archie has spent most of his time indoors or traveling? In that respect, I imagine that it was good that I found the garden when I was little, and that Colin and I learned to exercise and play out of doors, isn't it?"

The robin flutters his wings and dives to a lower branch. Oh yes, exercise and fresh air is good for anyone, and especially for helping one stay youthful. Nothing works as well! All the tonics and medicines that human-creatures take for their health seems quite silly to a robin.

His pretty friend watches him settle down before she speaks again, rather more quietly than before. "I've still not told Colin that Dickon and I are going to have a baby. Dickon disagrees with my decision. Do you?"

The robin twitters, for he's a bold chap just like his father before him, and so of course he agrees with Mary. Demmed naughty of Colin to surprise them all with a wife, and sometimes a taste of one's own medicine is highly beneficial. Theoretical medicine, of course. Not the silly tonics.

She laughs cheerfully. "Aye, that's jus' wha' I thought! 'Tis highly beneficial. I told Cindy, of course. She doesn't deserve not to know, for I like her very much. And she's promised not to tell Colin, which makes me like her even more. Dickon won't tell him because he knows my mind on the subject, but he does give me such disappointed looks sometimes that it nearly breaks my resolve. Why, before it's all said and done, I may well break down and tell him anyways. Uncle Archie just thinks I'm being sullen, though I can't believe he's _too_ annoyed with me. He was awfully frustrated with Colin back in the spring. Good heavens, but won't Colin get a shock, when he steps off the train and sees me! He'll be like a fish out of water, I expect. I can't wait. I'll relish it, I assure you!"

The robin's mate flutters beside her husband before he can agree with his young friend again, and she eyes Mary speculatively. Mary laughs at her expression, if robins do indeed have facial expressions (she will swear to her dying day that they do).

"I know," she agrees. "It is quite mean of me. But I cannot help it, just this once!"

The garden door suddenly creaks open, interrupting her conversation with her two friends. Mary shields her eyes against the mid-morning sun to see who is coming to visit, and to her pleasant surprise, it is Ben Weatherstaff, hobbling along with the aid of a cane. Though he no longer works constantly about the manor, he does potter about a few times a week, and it seems that no one can stop him from trying to help in the gardens, not even Lord Craven.

"An' wha is tha doin' here?" Mary says loudly, placing her basket on the ground and hurrying forward to help him, even though she knows he doesn't want any help. "Tha'll wear thysel' out, make no mistake!"

He wheezes dryly and shoos her hand away from his arm, as he always does. "Tha's a righ' wench, tha is. Tryin' t' coddle me like I was a helpless babe! I'll come an' visit Lady Craven's garden if I please, _when_ I please, an' tha won' stop me, Mrs. Sowerby."

She shakes her head. "Tha's stubborn, tha is. Don't you dare do any work here, Ben Weatherstaff. Why, Dickon weeded and pruned jus' th' other day, an' tha's -"

"Tha'd best not say I'm too old," he huffs in his crackling voice. "I can still garden, tha knows!"

The robin twitters and hops closer to him, chastising him for being so stubborn. He always was, old Ben.

Mary nods to the bird and says, "Even _he_ thinks you are being obstinate. Why, I'll come in here one day an' find thee dead on th' ground, I will. Wit' a pair o' prunin' shears in tha hands, tryin' t' tend t' th' roses!"

Weatherstaff glares at the robin and remarks sharply, "Aye, 'tis jus' like thee, t' side wit' Mistress Mary. Ah, get away wit' thee, I've no use fer thee if tha's goin' t' be jus' as tha father, bold as brass an' jus' as stubborn as I am! An' as for _thee_ ," he adds, turning to Mary, "best for me t' die in such a place as th' garden, instead o' in bed. This is more me home than me room in th' servant's quarters at th' manor, tha knows!"

Despite his sharp tongue however, his eyes are crinkled happily and he is smiling at her. Somehow, he's always thrived on being crusty with her, while at the same time liking her as he might a granddaughter. He changes the conversation easily and says, "I see tha's well enow along. Nearly four months now, eh? Does tha have names already, or is tha still musin' them over?" He sits down upon one of the benches on the lawn and continues to lean upon the cane, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight as he watches as she returns to her work.

"I haven' yet decided," she answers, speaking loudly so that he can hear her properly. He's quite deaf these days, but at least he can still move about fairly well. "I canna determine if Dickon wants a lad or a lass, t' tell thee th' truth. I suppose if I have a boy, I'd like t' name it after Dickon, and if a girl, after Aunt Lilias."

"Aye, that would seem appropriate," Ben agrees, the smile deepening in his eyes.

"I wasn' thinkin' o' names jus' now though, I'm afraid. I've been pickin' a basket o' roses for Uncle Archie an' havin' a righ' graidley conversation wit' th' robin, when tha came through th' door."

"An' wha' was tha talkin' o'?" He gives the robin a withering look; the robin chirrups and flutters closer, just to tease Ben.

"Age," Mary replies dryly, clipping off another rose and adding it to her basket.

Ben laughs outright - a cackling, hoarse laugh. "Is tha feelin' old? Lass, tha doesn' know wha' old is! Wait 'til thee reaches my age, an' then tha'll know!"

"Aye, an' how old is thee, Ben Weatherstaff?" she counters, smirking at him.

"Me?" He scratches his chin thoughtfully and watches as she places another pink rose in the basket with the others. "Eh, I suppose I'm pushin' nine-n-eighty, I am."

"Do you ever feel tired?" she asks seriously. She unconsciously places her hand upon the bump under her dress.

Ben snorts. "N'er a day in me life, lass!"

"Ha! Tha's lyin' Ben Weatherstaff. Tha shouldn' be sinnin' so, when tha's so close t' thy grave."

"Well, I reckon th' good Lord'll forgive me jus' th' once. Does thy mind if I take some o' th' roses back t' me room? They look righ' nice on th' table by th' bed each week. They remind me o' Lady Craven, they do."

She smiles at him and hands him a couple. "Of course I never mind. Tha is always welcome t' th' roses."

"Tha's a good lass." He slips the roses in his coat pocket, the bright blooms peeking out so they won't get crushed.

"Tha be careful walkin' back up t' th' manor," she reminds him, picking the full basket up. "I'll leave thee wit' thy friend here, while I take these to Uncle Archie. I know that's why tha's really here, t' see him!"

Ben twitches and nods to the robin. "Him? Bah. But I suppose he's a righ' smart thing, an' I do enjoy a good conversation wit' him, regardless o' how he' treats me."

She laughs as she leaves the garden, and calls back, "Aye, so do I! Good day t' thee, Ben!"

"An' g'day t' thee too, lass!"


	74. The Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lord Craven makes a request of Dickon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Simon & Garfunkel, released in 1964.
> 
> A bit of a depressing chapter, but some of them are.
> 
> Also, I don't know how Lilias died in the 1993 movie, but in the novel, she died as a result of a tree in the garden, not because of Colin's birth.
> 
> ~BD

****

## The Sound of Silence

****

It isn't that he didn't want his niece to bear children and experience the joy of being a mother. Why, for the first month of Colin's life, Lilias had been happier than he had ever known her.

He jerks slightly at the thought. The nervous twitch of the vein in his temple affects his right eyelid and makes it flutter minutely for a half-second before he composes himself and sighs heavily. By cruel instinct, he glances in displeasure and anger at the dead tree near the rear of the garden. As long as he lives, he will never forgive it, though it may seem ludicrous to cling to such hatred, and towards an inanimate object no less.

And besides. In many ways, Mary is more robust than Lilias ever was. Lilias was always delicate and fragile – or at least, she had seemed that way to Archie, at any rate. Mary has had the benefit of exercise and play for the last several years, and the difference between her physical aptitude and Lilias's has been evident to him for some time. Mary is strong enough to walk across the moor by herself, often walking into Thwaite and back, whereas Lilias would have taken the carriage. Mary's health is in little danger from colds and sniffles, and her body flexible from her work in the garden.

His brow furrows, for physical labor in any capacity should never have been Mary's lot in life, and yet she embraced it when she adopted the garden and he has been powerless to stop her, it seems. She will be in a better position to bear a child without as much hardship as other upper-class women; Lilias had been weakened by her pregnancy and delivery and was no in position to recover from the severe trauma of falling when the weighty branch broke, let alone recovering from being partially crushed by it.

He shivers and turns away from the tree; it is a nauseating sight and, were it not in the secret garden, he would have ordered Dickon to remove it by now. As it is, the thought has more than once crossed his mind, regardless of whether Mary would object or not. It is likely a liability; he should consider speaking to Dickon about it the next chance he gets, if he can remember to do so.

His eyes take in the rest of the garden, which is in mid-summer bloom. Still, without Mary, Dickon, or Colin running about, Archibald feels as though the walls are closing in upon him, and the colors seem far too lurid and painful.

And so he leaves, passing beneath the trailing ivy with a heavy heart and wondering why he bothered coming to the garden at all this morning. He had hoped it would soothe him and it failed to do so; he has too much on his mind to feel peaceful these days and the garden, without its usual inhabitants, is nothing more than an eerie, hidden domain. He tries to sift though all of his worries: whenever Mary has tea with him, her face rosy and her eyes bright, her left hand resting unconsciously upon the roundness of her figure, reminds him of Lilias whilst she had been pregnant and he had been happy. The fact that Colin is still in America, helping his wife finalize her father's estates, rubs against Archibald's nerves; it isn't that he doesn't like Cindy, it is that he misses his son. Dickon, going about his work around the manor with a cheerful smile, whistling Yorkshire folksongs without realizing what he's doing, or the maids and gardeners at their work, makes Lord Craven feel isolated and lodged in a past life - a life before automobiles and telephones and airplanes. Pitch died several years ago, and John has taken up the old footman's duties as well as butlering when needed.

He smiles bitterly as he slowly heads up the ivy walk, for there are many days he wishes he were young again, and many more that he wishes his life would hurry up and be over, so he can rejoin his wife. Colin nor Mary would ever quite understand – oh, they would be horrified, likely – but they are living their lives and he is, sometimes, only an afterthought. They don't mean it that way, and so Archibald does not blame them. For once, he was young and in love, too.

He passes Dickon near the water garden; the younger man is instructing two under-gardeners on their chores for the day. He calls him and Dickon comes to him without question, leaving the other two to finish weeding the beds in this vicinity.

Without preamble, Archibald says quietly, if not a bit coldly, "The dead tree at the back of Mary's garden. It should be removed, I think. As soon as possible. If you have any spare gardeners today, set them to the task."

Dickon does not make any sound of protest as Archie expected him to; he merely looks thoughtful before he says, "Aye, sir. If that's wha' tha wishes."

"I will take responsibility if Mary comments on my decision."

But the younger man only smiles slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. "She's wondered, 'afore, why tha's left it so long. She didn' want t' remove it wit'ou' thy permission, an' she wasn' certain on how t' ask thee 'bout it. I'll tend t' it t'day, sir. I've a couple o' lads who can have it out by th' afternoon."

And when Dickon inclines his head and leaves Archibald, he leaves the older with more on his mind than before, somehow.


	75. Hard to Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon tells Mary of Lord Craven's decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Monkees, released in 1967.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Hard to Believe

****

"Lord Craven asked me t' remove th' dead tree from thy garden t'day."

Mary pauses in stirring the sauce on top of the stove and glances over her shoulder at her husband, who is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking thoughtful. After a long moment, she goes back to her cooking and remarks quietly, "I had wondered when he would. I just never knew how to ask him about it myself. I knew it must torture him something terrible."

"Aye, I know it does. Took two o' th' boys th' best part o' th' afternoon, but they got it out and cut up for firewood."

"Firewood! Uncle Archie has a vindictive nature, have you noticed?" She smiles slightly. "But it was time for it to go. Uncle Archie was probably thinking of me when he ordered it removed, if I had to guess."

"I thought th' same thing. He sees Lady Craven in thee; he canna bear th' idea that somethin' would happen t' thee as it did t' her. I canna blame him; now that tha's my wife, I would as like go as crazy as Lord Craven did if somethin' happened."

"Nothing is going to happen," Mary responds calmly, sprinkling salt over the sauce and stirring it again.

"I'm certain Lady Craven thought th' same thing, Mary."

"And as your mother would tell you, there's no sense crossing bridges that may not even be there. I do wish tha'd stop worryin' so."

"I try," he chuckles. "But tis difficult when I think o' thee by thysen all day."

"Believe me, Dickon. I've a million things to do! Cleaning and gardening and I'm working on a quilt for the baby, and clothes! I am grateful your mother taught me to sew, if nothing else."

He teases, "I'm grateful she taught thee to cook!" and Mary cannot help but laugh at this as she remembers how terrible she was at it when they first married.


	76. Long Time Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Cece return to Thwaite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Dixie Chicks, released in 2002.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Long Time Gone

****

Soon after the train enters the wild dales, he notices that she is smirking something awful.

"What is it?" he asks suspiciously.

She shakes her head and looks beyond the window at the rolling hills, green and wild from summer. "Yorkshire is beautiful in late summer, isn't it?" she muses, the smile still playing about her lips.

"Yes, it is. But why are you smirking like that?"

"I'm just happy to be back, that's all. I've missed Mary."

He relaxes somewhat. "So have I. And Dickon. We've been having such a grand time in the States that I can't imagine what they've been doing all summer. Nothing much I imagine, from what their letters said. The same thing day in and day out."

"That's unfair, Colin. They love Yorkshire. They are perfectly content to live here the rest of their lives and you shouldn't chide them so for it."

"I'm not saying I don't love it. Just that...I enjoy doing new things, too."

She starts to say something else, but thinks better of it. So she closes her mouth and goes back to watching the scenery fly by the window.

He continues, "Mary and Dickon though... They will keep on doing the same old things forever, I think. And if they enjoy it, than I suppose that's fine. But they never do anything new and that isn't always enough for me."

"You never know," she says, with a slight edge to her voice. "They might decide to do something new one day."

He laughs. "Like visit the States? Dickon won't get on a liner. I can't blame him, of course –"

"You _shouldn't_ blame him. Dickon has perfectly good reasons for not wanting to get on a liner."

"But Mary has no such reservations."

She rolls her eyes. "Mary loves her husband and would do very little to upset him. Good Lord, Colin. Sometimes I wonder if you have the first bit of common sense. Dickon wouldn't particularly want Mary to travel overseas without him, now would he? And she would accept his wishes on something that important!"

He starts to argue the point, but the conductor is suddenly moving down the aisle, announcing that they are approaching Thwaite, and he and Cindy quickly stand to gather their things.

"All I'm saying," he continues as they move down the aisle towards the door, "is that it might be nice for all four of us to travel together into Leeds before Christmas to do some holiday shopping, or something of the sort!"

"Somehow, I can't picture Dickon wanting to go shopping in Leeds," Cindy replies dryly.

"He should try something new every now and then, that's _all I'm saying_." He turns to thank the conductor, not noticing that his wife has stepped off the train before him, or that Dickon was already at the steps waiting to help her down, or that her smirk has become much wider now.

He turns and sees Dickon first; he smiles and shakes his friend's hand. "It's good t' see thee," he says warmly.

"Aye, tha's been gone a while, now. Tha's missed a bit goin' on."

"Tha'll have t' fill me in, then!"

He turns then to greet Mary, his arms outstretched to catch her in a hug, but he stops short when he actually _looks_ at her.

"What was it you were just saying, Colin?" his wife muses thoughtfully from Mary's side. "About Mary and Dickon needing to try new things?"

And for the first time in a long time, he finds that – though his mind can come up with a hundred different questions, statements, and remarks – he can't seem to put any of those thoughts into words.

His father sighs resignedly and says, "Come then, Colin. Let's get to the car. And do stop gaping. I expect Mary will be happy to tell you all about it."


	77. Games People Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Mary have a heated discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Joe South, released in 1968.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Games People Play

****

He tries to think back to the last time he was alone in the garden with only Mary, and no one else. If he remembers rightly, it was just after he'd brought Dickon home from the hospital in London, almost two years ago. It had been bitter and icy that day; he had wanted to find out how Mary was getting on with Dickon, and if their friend had spoken any of his experiences in France.

He sort of wishes it were bitter and icy today, because that is precisely how he feels at the moment. But the garden is just the opposite – it is alive with color and warmth, the summer flowers are in late bloom, the robins have left their nest and are darting about the lawn, and the sky arches overhead in a brilliant baby blue.

_Baby_. He cringes slightly at the thought, and not wishing to face Mary, he focuses instead on the roses that cover one side of the garden. Finally, he says, "You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

"Did what on purpose?"

A flare of irritation wells up within him at the innocent confusion in her voice, and he snaps, "Don't act so stupid, Mary! You know exactly what I'm talking about!"

There is a long moment of silence. Then he realizes that she has come to stand beside him, her hand brushing along the pink and red petals.

"If you are asking whether or not I got pregnant on purpose," she says carefully, "the answer is no. It was as much a surprise to me as anything. Dickon and I didn't plan it in the least. It just...happened." Her hand drops away from the roses and rests on her stomach, protruding enough to be clearly obvious, but not yet enormous. "On the other hand, if you're asking if I deliberately didn't _tell_ you..."

"But why _wouldn't_ you tell me something that important?" he complains angrily. "I would have thought you'd have been _excited_ to tell me!"

" _Ah_." Her eyes flash. "It's perfectly acceptable then, for _you_ to not tell me that you'd decided to elope? But it's _not_ acceptable for me to surprise you with the fact that Dickon and I are expecting our first child?"

He flushes furiously. "For God's sake, Mary. Do stop harping on my seemingly abrupt decision to marry Cindy! It was months ago, now!"

She shakes her head. "I'm not particularly upset about it anymore, Colin. I adore Cindy. But as far as the baby... Well... I _did_ want to surprise you. I thought you would be _happy_ for us."

"I'm actually rather mad at both of you!" he responds heatedly.

"Then next time, I trust you'll think twice before surprising _us_ again? Because if it isn't right for me to surprise you with something so drastically life changing, then it isn't right for you to do the same thing to us," she snaps back.

"So this was an object lesson, was it?"

"Only if you learn something from it, Colin. If you don't learn anything, then it isn't a lesson at all."

He turns away from her and storms across the lawn, desperate to relieve some of his pent up energy and anger. The only real way to do so would be to go for a long run across the moor and he isn't sure if he has time to do that before dinner. Blast.

But then, he stops suddenly and frowns. A odd realization has hit him, something he didn't notice earlier in his blindness of anger towards Mary and Dickon (and heck, even a little bit towards Cindy, who knew all along and kept the secret on Mary's behalf). Something is different about the garden. He turns sharply and gazes all about the hidden place, and stammers, "Wait, where's...?"

He sees the sharp intake of breath in the way Mary's chest draws inward and her shoulders lift, but she doesn't flinch. Instead, she shakes her head. "That wasn't my decision. It was your father's. I had no say in the matter."

He turns to look back at the space where the dead tree used to tower, and he suddenly feels drained instead of angry. Hollow, somehow.

"When?" he asks quietly.

"About three weeks ago, now."

He thinks of his mother; of the portrait that hangs in his bedroom above his fireplace, showing a laughing, happy young woman who loved life and roses. He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, unable to cling to the anger that had just been coursing through him. "I suppose...it was probably best," he mumbles. "I had wondered... if he would ever..."

"Me, too. I knew he would do it someday."

He nods, but cannot think of anything else to say. The dead tree had been such a part of the garden as everything else; a dark reminder that not everything was happy and cheerful all of the time. They had rarely looked upon it in their youth, preferring to lie beneath the huge oak tree instead, or out upon the lawn, and ignore that life was sometimes painful and bleak. It had been a long time before Dickon had finally told him why that particular tree was "quite dead", and he remembers that day with a pang of sadness, because it was the first time he had heard any particulars of his mother's death. He had stared for hours at her portrait that night, finally reminding himself at two in the morning that he needed to stop dwelling on death and live, for his mother wouldn't want him to dwell on her death.

Apparently, it had taken his father much longer to come to that realization.

After a long moment, Mary says heavily, "Go for a run, Colin. It will do you good. You always think more clearly when you run."

He nods again, agreeing. If he's late for supper, so be it. But he desperately wants to run across the moor and feel _life_ beating into his chest and coursing through his blood; he wants to think and sort out how he feels about everything. Without a backward glance, he leaves his cousin alone in the garden.


	78. Baby Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Cece discuss the possibility of having children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Jan & Dean, released in 1959.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Baby Talk

****

"Do you want... a baby?"

Cindy nearly drops her hairbrush and twists on the vanity seat to stare at her husband. He is stretched out on the bed, still nearly-fully dressed. He's taken his shoes off, his waistcoat is unbuttoned, the top buttons of his shirt are undone, and his tie is gone; he's rolled the sleeves of his shirt up a couple of turns, and his arms are under his head. The look is distinctly disheveled and agitated, not helped by the way he's frowning pensively at the ceiling or how his hair is all mused. A telltale sign that he's been running his fingers through it in thought.

"Right now?" She nearly blanches at the thought.

He doesn't smile. To her horror, he responds distantly, "I was asking _you_."

She turns to the vanity again, catching sight of her face in the large mirror. She looks worried, even a little panicked. She'll need to rearrange her expression and appear neutral until she gauges Colin's mood and thoughts. It's not terribly surprising why he would be thinking about babies, but in a way, she still wasn't expecting him to ask her if she wanted one.

"No, Colin," she answers slowly. "Not right now, at any rate. That doesn't mean _never_ , just... not _now_."

"I guess I didn't realize how easy it is to... well..."

"Get pregnant?" she asks dryly, pulling the brush through her hair. Typical. It should not surprise her that Colin hasn't considered the idea of pregnancy at all in the few months they've been married.

He sighs heavily, and Cindy sets the brush down, rises, and goes to her side of the bed. "Most people have children sooner than Mary and Dickon, Colin. You can't tell me that you didn't expect this to happen."

"I know. I mean... That's why I asked..."

She slides out of her robe, revealing a lacy nightdress she purchased before they sailed out of New York. She had thought then that she would tease Colin with it some, but he doesn't even seem to notice it now. _Probably a good thing at this precise moment_ , she thinks. So she says, "We're only nineteen. We have a long time to think about that. I think it can wait a year or two, don't you?"

He still doesn't look at her, even as she crawls into bed and the nightdress slides up her leg a bit too far. She twists to get comfortable, frowns at him, and props up on one arm.

"Colin, do stop fretting. Surely you knew that Mary and Dickon would eventually have a child!"

"Yes! But I didn't think it would be so soon!"

She pauses and narrows her eyes, remembering a similar situation in their past. "You feel as you did that night I first met you, don't you? Left out."

He sits up abruptly and begins to unbutton the rest of his shirt. "No," he mutters under his breath. "Of course not."

She rolls her eyes, sits up, and slides closer to him. "Yes, Colin. You do. You feel as though they've left you out again. Is this how the three of you have always been? Trying to see who can get one over the other first?"

"No! It isn't! That's why it's so... so..."

"Frustrating?" she supplies.

"Yes!" He stands up and takes off his trousers. "And yet, I can't say anything, because I didn't tell them that I was marrying you! It would be hypocritical! Mary was very expressive about that."

"Colin, Mary and Dickon truly didn't deliberately get pregnant just to spite you. And Mary didn't tell you because she wanted to surprise you."

"She _wanted_ to teach me a lesson," he growls furiously, stripping out of his underclothes. "She told me so."

She sighs. "Well, either way, it's done and over, and it won't do you any good to fester and fume about it. They're your dearest friends. And something Jamison once told me about friendship – it means that just because you may be mad at someone, doesn't mean you stop loving them. If you do, then it isn't real friendship. He told me that after I'd had an argument with one of my girlfriends. I was about twelve, I suppose."

Colin's shoulders drop and he sits down on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "You're right," he admits sadly. "I just hate to see them start a family already! They're the same age as we are, and you don't want children yet! Why couldn't they have waited a couple of more years?"

"Colin, the four of us aren't identical. We discussed this on the train. Mary and Dickon want different things in life than we do right now. That doesn't make it wrong. And it doesn't mean that I don't _ever_ want children."

"But what if it happens? What if we got pregnant unexpectedly?" he asks anxiously, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Mary and Dickon didn't plan it, did they? It just happened. The same thing could happen to us, too! I don't know if... if I'm ready for that!"

"If it does happen, then it was meant to be that way! Really, Colin, I think you're worrying far too much about this."

"It's just..." He runs his hand through his hair again, messing it all up. "I can't imagine myself as a... as... a _father_. Like... like _my_ father."

"You would be a different sort of father than your own, I'm sure."

He goes on, as though he hasn't even heard her. "But I can easily picture _Dickon_ as a father. I suppose I always could; Dickon has that way about him and always has! Even when we were children, Dickon was forever rescuing creatures on the moor and nursing them to health. Isn't that rather like a parent? He's consistent, Dickon is – and I'm _not_."

"Dickon is very consistent," she agrees. "He'll be a very good father. But that doesn't mean you _wouldn't_ be, Colin. Just because you aren't ready _now_ doesn't mean you wouldn't be when the time comes."

"I feel very young," he says sulkily.

"You are. We both are."

"Maybe I'm not grown up yet."

"Colin, do stop feeling sorry for yourself. When you get moody, it's absolutely annoying." She wraps her arms about his waist, feeling the muscles in his abdomen ripple, and she kisses his bare shoulder, hoping to bring him out of his sulkiness.

"Not tonight!" He sounds aghast. "You might get pregnant, and..."

She feels a wave of irritation. "Oh, for goodness sake! Are you not going to make love to me until you're ready to have a child, now?"

"But –!"

"No, Colin. Stop being childish and come to bed. I mean it." She releases him abruptly and crawls under the covers, half-debating on smacking the back of his head with her hand. She loves him, but good Lord, he can be frustrating when he's in a mood.

He sighs and follows her, but he doesn't cuddle up to her the way he usually does. She scowls at him for a long moment, before rolling over on her side so that her back is to him.

Still, it is a long time before she drifts off to sleep – and she knows, from the way his breathing hasn't settled into a steady rhythm, that he isn't sleeping, either.


	79. It Hurts To Be in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Dickon discuss contraceptives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Gene Pitney, released in 1962.
> 
> I had a number of reviewers comment or privately message me about old contraceptive devices used in rural England. I swear, I know nothing about sheep intestines but my OSaATB (Official Source of All Things British) assured me this was a 'thing' back in the day. I'm kind of surprised people actually wanted a chapter on this, but okay then.
> 
> ~BD

****

## It Hurts To Be in Love

****

The sun hasn't yet risen, but the early gray of dawn is all the light Dickon needs to cross the moor on horseback. He rides slowly, as he did when he was a child, his eyes accustomed to the dim light and his ears picking up every sound. Birds chirrup from their nests and field mice scurry through the grasses; the moor slowly begins to wake. Any moment the gray will turn a faint pink and the sun will crest the horizon.

The horse whickers suddenly and tosses its head, and Dickon leans forwards and whispers to it, caressing the soft nap. Something moves ahead of him and rises from the tall moor grass, and he jolts and stares in surprise. He wasn't expecting a _human_ creature on the moor this early.

" _Colin_? Wha' is tha doin' out this time o' th' morn'?"

Even in the grayness, Colin looks pale and chilled, sitting in the tall, damp grass with his legs drawn to his chest. He shrugs and rises stiffly to move out of the way of the horse as Dickon dismounts and walks towards him.

"I just came out to think. Are you on your way to the manor for work, then?"

There is something too light in his voice, too conversational. He changed the topic too easily and very quickly.

"Aye." Dickon pushes his cap back slightly and narrows his eyes. "Wha' is tha thinkin' about afore th' sun is up?"

Colin turns to gaze across the still expanse of the moor. Finally, he says, "Cindy and I had a fight last night. And I don't have any idea what to do. Sometimes the moor helps me think."

"Wha' did th' two o' thee fight about?"

"Having a baby."

"Oh, Colin..."

"No, please, don't take it the wrong way," Colin says anxiously. "I thought perhaps that since Mary is pregnant, Cindy might also want a baby. And... Well... I'm just not ready for that, myself! I feel awfully young all of a sudden and I only realized last night just how easy it must be to... well, you know."

Dickon can't help but feel a twitch of annoyance, even if Colin _is_ his friend. "Tha didn' think o' that when tha married her, did tha?" he asks - albeit a bit sarcastically.

"Please don't make me feel worse than I already do, Dickon. You always somehow manage to do that."

"Not on purpose. Lord, but 'tis a wonder she's not wit' child already. Does tha use any soart o' protection at all?"

Colin stares at him a bit blankly.

Dickon clarifies, "There _are_ things tha can do t' prevent it, somewhat. Not a true guarantee o' course, but better than nothin'."

"Such as?"

Dickon smiles wryly. "On second thought, it'd do thee good t' become a father. Tha wouldn' want t' use th' old ways and tha could do wit' a wee bit o' responsibility."

"What are the old ways?"

"Sheep intestines." Dickon starts to walk, leading the horse, leaving Colin to digest the words.

A few seconds go by before his friend catches up with him and stammers, "That's... I... _You mean_...? But... _Ugh_!"

Dickon cannot help but laugh. "Works, though."

"You mean I'd have to..." Colin looks down instinctively, an expression of slight horror on his face.

"Aye." Dickon doesn't elaborate; it's too much fun watching Colin speechless.

"I don't think Cindy would go for _that_!" he splutters.

"Probably not." He grins a bit; the pink tinge has come into the sky and the sun is about to rise over the crest of the moor. It sort of matches the color of Colin's face.

"Is there anything _else_ I could do besides using... _sheep intestines_?"

"Aye, have mother make thee a baby quilt, I'd imagine."

"Dickon, _really_ , I can't be a father yet! I'm still a..."

"Tha's married, an' so tha's a man an' not a child," Dickon says sternly, turning to frown at him. "Younger lads 'an thee have become fathers an' not panicked nearly as much as thy does."

Colin hangs his head, a bit miserably, and Dickon sighs and softens.

"Jus'... let nature take her course. What will be, will be. Tha'd be a good father, I think. But if tha's still worried about it, have Cindy speak t' my mother. Mary once said there's certain times o' th' month that are less likely than others for a lass t' get pregnant. And tha can always pull out afore... well, thy knows wha' I mean."

Colin finally nods. "Aye. Verra well. Maybe Mary and Cindy could walk to your mother's this week. Will you mention it to Mary today, when tha sees her?"

"Aye, if tha'd like."

"I would."

"An' thy'd best make up wit' thy wife. Does no good t' be at odds wit' her."

"No," Colin says wryly. "It doesn't. It's damned wretched."

"Come on, then."

And the two began to walk towards the manor together, as the sun spreads across the moor.


	80. Witch Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the staff of Misselthwaite and Cece's staff talk about cultural differences in the Misselthwaite kitchens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song released in the 1980's.
> 
> This chapter is not, in any way, meant to be racist in nature. It was born from Martha and Mary's original meeting in The Secret Garden. You may recall that when Mary first meets Martha, Martha remarks that she peeked at Mary while Mary was sleeping. She had never seen a "black" before and was hoping the girl from India would have a darker skin tone. Of course, to Martha's disappointment, Mary was white (or, as Martha complained in the novel, yellow) and the two got into their first little spat.
> 
> So I thought, "How would Martha react at seeing someone of a different ethnicity? An actual African American?" I imagine she would be fascinated at the differences and enjoy the sensationalism of something so unique in her rather close-knit, sheltered world.
> 
> Having Jamison tease Martha about voodoo though...eh, that was my Muse's idea. And Jamison's. For he does like to have a bit of fun with people sometimes, and Martha is a bit of an easy target.
> 
> The author knows next to nothing about voodoo, but a bit more about root workers.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Witch Doctor

****

The kitchen is hot in late September, even in the late evening. The windows and door are thrown open to catch any sort of breeze that mightn't come down the garden path that leads to the servants' quarters, but such seems non-existent as the sun comes closer to touching the edge of the moor and disappearing into night. The fire is low (mercifully), and the few people gathered about the scrubbed, worn table have rolled their sleeves up past their elbows and have opened their collars.

"I haven't seen Master Colin so quiet in all my life," Mrs. Medlock declares, sitting down heavily in a large chair.

Martha stirs her tea slowly, thoughtfully. "Aye, 'tis as if he turned into a different person when he saw Miss Mary. Such a wonder! I never thought it would bother 'im so, her being pregnant."

"Well, it was definitely Mary who changed his tune," Mrs. Opal replies, her Bostonian accent standing out sharply in contrast to the British ones about her. "He was as carefree as a lark while in America. One could never quite pin him down for anything – he was up at dawn to run, and begged Cindy take him everywhere at her father's estates. It's as though he's a completely different person, here."

John, Misslethwaite's footman, smiles genially at the group. "Eh, well. Perhaps Miss Mary will make him grow up in the end. Tha always said she would, Mrs. Medlock. She did so when they were ten; she'll do it now too, I'll warrant."

Mrs. Medlock sniffs. "And here I thought his getting married would make him grow up. But, I see it will be Mary regardless."

Jamison chuckles. "He is a young man – and young men often do foolish things without thinking. Especially when a woman is involved! It has happened many a time before; it will happen many a time to come. Perhaps people chastise him too much. He has been nothing but good for Miss Cindy, and for that, I am grateful."

"Oh yes. He's been much better than Mr. Garrett," Mrs. Opal agrees. "When I think what _could_ have happened... Lord a'mercy, but I do get the chills!"

" _Oooh_ , wasn' that th' man she nearly married?" Martha's eyes widen. "Eh, but I did hear tale o' him!"

"Ghastly sort of man," Mrs. Opal says, in a voice dripping with gooey gossip. She is excited for an audience as rapt as Martha, who is as rapt as can be. "He's married himself, now – married a rich heiress who thought she'd made an excellent match. But I hear he's still furious that Miss Cindy got away from him. No telling what he mayn't do, still. Even if he's married himself."

Martha shudders. "Eh, but I shouldn't like t' meet him, I'm sure."

"No, you shouldn't." Mrs. Opal sounds as though she is telling a horror story to a group of children around a roaring fire in the dark. "If I ever met him again, I'm likely to murder him with my bare hands, if I could do so!"

One of the younger kitchen maids shakes her head as she pours tea for Lord Craven. "Land's sake, talking o' murder!" she cries. "It's the devil's work, tha knows! Tha'll bring wrath down upon us all!"

"Ah! Get on wit' thee," Medlock says irritably. "Lord Craven'll have thy head if tha's late wit' his tea!"

"Aye, Mrs. Medlock." The girl scurries from the kitchen with the tray.

When the door bangs shut behind her, Mrs. Opal says cheerfully, "Jamison, perhaps you should tell that gal about voodoo when she gets back from taking the master his tea. Lord knows what she'd do then!" She laughs loudly at the thought.

Jamison laughs, too. "Heavens no! She'd be terrified! You're a cruel one, you are."

Martha, interested as always in new things (and especially at having met a black for the first time in her life), asks curiously, "Wha's _voo doo_?"

"Witchcraft, essentially." Mrs. Opal grins.

Martha looks thoroughly shocked at this blasé explanation, and Jamison elaborates, "I don't know much about it myself, to be honest, Martha. I've only ever lived north of the state of Virginia. Voodoo is mostly from down south, down Louisiana ways. Down in New Orleans. But, I do know that the witch doctors who practice voodoo make these little dolls to represent someone they - or one of their customers - want to get even with. And to get even, you stick pins in the doll. Say, for instance, they stick a pin in its head. Supposedly, the person gets a headache. Or a pin in the stomach? The person gets a stomachache. Why, they could make a person ail to death! And in parts of South Carolina, they're called root workers instead of witch doctors, and they do even worse things than stick pins in dolls. Root workers can make snakes and spiders come out of your body!"

"Tosh," Medlock sniffs. "What nonsense."

"Eh! I don't think I should like t' visit any such place!" Martha whispers. "Tis goin' against God, surely! Making _spiders and snakes_ come out o' a person's body? How awful! Sounds like th' devil's work, it do."

Jamison laughs. "It is a bit strange, I'll admit. Never saw it done before, but I've heard others speak of it. They say down south there are many things that would surprise you."

"I'll stay in England, thank thee verra much!" Martha states reverently.

"Well, who's going to take Colin and Cindy their tea?" Mrs. Opal asks, setting her mug of tea down. "Shall we draw straws for it?"

"No need for that," Jamison responds, smiling and rising from the bench. "I'll take it to them."

"I'd best tend th' fires," Martha adds dolefully.

"And I'd best just sit here and finish the tea." Mrs. Opal winks at them, and they all laugh as they began to go about their evening chores.


	81. Flowers on the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon has a discussion with his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Statler Brothers, released in 1966.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Flowers on the Wall

****

The flowers growing in the cracks of the ancient stone wall surrounding Dickon's childhood garden are starting to fade as autumn nips at their petals. He doesn't pay them any heed, however; there are more important things to tend to.

Like the potatoes and cabbages.

He works steadily, marking the sun's descent in his head, noting the time. He will need to head home soon, to Mary, before twilight hits.

"Thy takes t' much on thysen, Dickon-lad. Thy brothers an' sisters mind th' garden well enow. Is tha not satisfied wit' their work, that tha feels tha mun work thy ol' garden on thy day off?"

He can hear the smile in her voice, and he smirks over his shoulder at his mother. "They've missed two cabbage worms. They've got t' do better than that, les' they all starve."

Susan Sowerby laughs warmly. "Eh! Thy's a wonder, th'art. They won't starve, not as long as they've thee, an' thy knows it!"

He chuckles and moves to sit beside her on the wall. Leaning the shovel against his shoulder, he pushes his cap back slightly and sighs, his smile fading a little. "They've done a righ' fine job on it, t' tell thee th' truth. Makes me a bit sad, thinkin' they don' need me t' help them anymore."

"All things mun come t' an' end at some point," Susan reminds him gently, placing her hand on his knee. "Tha took care o' this garden for years as a lad; 'tis time tha let thy brothers and sisters do th' work, or they won' know how t' as they get older."

"Aye, I know."

She pauses, then says thoughtfully, "Something is worryin' thee."

He shrugs. "I supp'se I've a lot on my mind."

"Aye, I supp'se thy does have a bit on thy mind. But thy shouldn' worry. Does no good, worryin'. Makes thee old afore thy time."

His brow furrows as he tries to put his thoughts into words; finally, he says, "Eh, it's jus'... Colin has me thinkin', a bit. He's worried he mightn' be a good father if he an' Cindy have a child."

"Heavens! Colin is more o' a wonder than thee! He doesn' worry 'bout th' things a normal body should, an' he worries 'bout th' things that he shouldn'!" She laughs. "Tis like plungin' headfirst into a gorse bush, and thinkin' afterwards that th' thorns might hurt!"

Dickon cannot help but laugh good-naturedly with her at this assessment of Colin, for it is nothing but fact. After a couple of moments though, they fall into comfortable silence, and gaze out past the garden and over the purpling moor.

Then, abruptly, Dickon whispers, "But when Colin told me how afraid he was, that he mightn' be a good father, it made me start t' wonder. Will _I_ be a good father? An' wha' if I'm not?"

Susan starts and stares at him. "I canna believe thy would ask such a silly question!" she exclaims. "Tha, a _bad_ father? Never!"

"I supp'se it does sound silly," he admits. "But sometimes, people _do_ worry 'bout things they shouldn'. Sometimes, they canna help it."

"Listen t' thy mother, then. Thy will be a wonderful father. I assure thee. Donna think otherwise." She rises and tightens her shawl about her shoulders. "Thy'll teach thy children t' respect others, an' God's creation, an' t' be smart an' polite. And they'll be able t' charm th' animals an' flowers jus' as thee did." She smiles at him. "I should be shocked if they couldn'. An' best o' all, they'll be pretty, like thy wife."

He laughs. "Maybe thy's right. Thy usually is."

"An' speakin' o' thy wife, thy'd best get home t' her, afore it gets dark."

"Aye." He stands up and gives the little garden one last look. "I'll come by on my next day off, mother. Good night!"

She watches him as he strides across the pasture to the horse and whistles to it; it trots to him as a dog might. And Susan cannot help but smile wistfully as her son mounts and takes the reins and whispers to the animal. In a light canter, they began to head across the moor.

She would be surprised, indeed, if his children won't be able to do the same.


	82. Semi-Charmed Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon, Mary, Colin, and Cece go Christmas shopping in Leeds, and meet an unexpected person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Third Eye Blind, released in 1997.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Semi-Charmed Life

****

It is early November and Leeds is dull and gray. Colin grumbles about the chilly, dreary weather as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, while Mary and Cindy point excitedly at charming shop windows, and Dickon follows quietly with a small smile across his mouth. Christmas is fast approaching; the girls are eager to find gifts and he finds their joy infectious.

They meander down the streets, stopping frequently for Mary's sake to rest; they venture into the shops and the two men are soon laden with packages.

But it is late in the afternoon, as they are heading back to the train station, that the unusual occurs.

A voice, to Colin and Cindy and Mary no different than any other on the street, shouts out in surprise and Dickon turns sharply.

A young man their age approaches them swiftly, his cap at an angle over his face. He is smiling broadly and, to their surprise, he grips Dickon in a bone-crushing embrace.

Even more surprising, Dickon returns the gesture, his own smile suddenly much wider than before.

_Good God, Sowerby! Last I saw of you, you were being sent back to the field hospital with all your bones broken! And look at you now! You made it home safe then!_

_Aye, I did! As did thee! How is thy family?_

_Al'right, well enough! The missus just had our third, a little girl –!_

_Eh, that's wonderful, that! I am glad thy made it back alive for them; I know she was right worried about thee –_

_Same here – can't imagine what they would have done without me! Is this your wife then?_

_Aye! Mary! Mary, this is Joe Goodman –_

_Let me tell you, little lady, this man could hear incoming planes before they even took off behind enemy lines! And bandage wounds better than the medics!_

_Eh, jus' comes from listenin' and knowin' how, I su'pose._

_You were a lifesaver out there, I'm not joking. Many men were thankful you were around._

_What of Harold and Frank?_

_Harold copped it shortly after you were sent back –_

_No!_

_Frank made it out al'right though, all the way 'til the end – I hear he's back in his village, fishing like he was before the war. Willie lost his left leg same day Harold was killed, but Paul made it through with only a few shrapnel wounds –_

_Good man, Paul –_

_I see you're about to be a father, you are!_

_Aye! Our firs', due in a month or so –_

_That's wonderful, that! What a Christmas present! Listen, it was good to meet you, missus! But I need to be going; wife's going to hang me if I don't make it back before dinner –_

_It was good to see thee again –_

_And good to see you, lad!_

_Take care!_

_Same to you!_

The others hang back during this exchange, uncertain what to do or say or how to act, and as Joe Goodman finally waves and disappears into the crowd outside the station again, Dickon sighs and smiles after him.

He is quiet while they board and settle into their seats, and it isn't until they are under way that he notices Mary's sad expression.

"What's th' matter, love?" he whispers, leaning over in concern.

She shakes her head and rubs her belly unconsciously. "Sometimes," she says softly, "I forget that you lived another life. You've healed so much in the last two years, that it slips my mind a good bit of the time."

He puts his arm around her, and pulls her up against him. "It all happened so fast," he admits. "Joe comin' up t' me. I didn't expect t' run into him. Or anyone else for that matter. It's strange. How you can be thinkin' about everything else in t' world, an' then something reminds you o' that awful war."

"But you were happy to see him."

"Aye. I was. He's a good man, Joe is. I was happy to know he'd made it home safe. He had a family before he enlisted. A wife and a daughter." He pauses, and then murmurs, "Many men had families."

"You do too, now," she reminds him.

He smiles down at her before he rests his cheek against her hair. "Aye. I do. Amazin', that."

"Not _that_ amazing," she teases gently.

"When I didn' think I'd live t' be twenty... 'tis fairly amazin'," he admits.

And Mary says nothing, because in truth, she isn't certain how to respond.


	83. Hope Is Born Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and his father butt heads over the birth of Mary and Dickon's first child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Jim Brickman, released in 2008.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Hope Is Born Again

****

_December 1921_

Usually, when Colin is impatient, he is restless. He moves about, he paces, he runs his fingers through his hair until it is thoroughly mused, he picks things up and puts them down again. But tonight, in reversal of his usual self, he is completely still despite his impatience. He leans against the frosted parlor window, half-hidden behind the thick brocade curtains and gazing at the dark lawn beyond. Occasionally, snowflakes near the thick glass catch the firelight from inside the parlor; it is snowing heavily outside and absolutely freezing.

It is also eerily silent.

And he isn't certain which is _more_ unnerving: the silence, or the alternative.

Medlock comes into the room, all a bustle, and places a tray of tea on the table. Her voice is as curt as it always is. "Tea, sir," she announces to Lord Craven.

Colin bristles at the lack of emotion in her tone. She is efficient, yes. But sometimes efficiency isn't enough.

His father (who cares for nothing _but_ efficiency, it seems) answers carelessly, "Thank you, Medlock."

Only Colin catches the hint of tremor in the man's voice. He inhales slowly and watches a swirl of flakes as they brush the panes, and he digs his fingers into his arm to keep from bursting out in annoyance.

Unfortunately, Medlock (who has no idea of his cagey, irritated mood) says briskly, "Master Colin, do come away from the window. You're letting the cold into the room."

"I don't care for tea this moment, Medlock. I'll stay here, thank you," he bites, without even looking around at her.

There is a long, tense pause, but after a few moments he hears the door close behind her, followed by the sound of a book being placed on an end table next to one of the wing chairs in front of the fire. Then footsteps: heavy, slow, measured. The gentle clink of the teapot, the swirl of liquid as it moves from spout to cup, the tinkle of a spoon and the _plop_ of sugar. Little sounds that normally would not bother him so, but tonight they are grating on his _very last nerve_.

However, when he hears the spoon fall to the polished wood with a clatter, he cannot help it. Perhaps his father dropped it accidentally, but he rather doubts it.

"For God's sake, do _stop_!" Colin snarls furiously, coming out from the curtain in a rush and storming over to the table.

Lord Craven looks up at him, affronted and annoyed; Colin ignores him, snatches the spoon from where the man dropped it, and places it harder than necessary on the tray again with a resounding _slap_.

"You've been like this all bloody afternoon!" he bursts out, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

His father draws in on himself, looking both more hunched and less. His eyes flash angrily. "Colin, do stop acting like a child..."

"I am not acting like a child," Colin retorts mutinously. "You are."

"I will _not_ have you speak to me in such a manner. Apologize this moment."

Colin wrinkles his lip. "I will not. Do understand, sir, that I respect you and comprehend that this is a difficult time for you. But for crying out loud! Mary isn't my mother, and you're worrying for absolutely nothing! You've been like this all day and I can't stand it one second longer!"

"You are young," Lord Craven says coldly, "and do not yet understand much of anything, Colin. Childbirth is a difficult process, and –"

"She has plenty of people waiting on her! She hasn't had any sort of terrible accident as my mother had, the baby is coming on its own and not prematurely. It just so happened she was here instead of at her home when she went into labor, but that is no cause for you to act so –"

"I would feel better if my brother were here, and I do not need you to tell me that I should act any differently than I am."

"She has Dickon, _and_ Martha, _and_ Cindy –"

"Cindy has never experienced this before. And neither have –"

"Dickon and Martha grew up with children, and Dickon has birthed many an animal on the moor," Colin snarls, his temper rising dangerously.

"It is not a husband's place to be present in a birthing room –"

"Oh, Christ! Not that again! He knows more about it than most women, I'd wager! And as for Cindy? She needs to know; otherwise, she wouldn't have asked Mary if she could be present. I think between the four of them, they can help Mary without Uncle's assistance or even Mrs. Sowerby's! And it isn't as if either can make it in time – the roads are snowed under!"

"I believe you are more agitated than I am."

"Don't you dare try and make it sound as though I am more worried than you. We both know that isn't true at all."

The door opens again, before Lord Craven can argue the point. Cindy glances at the two of them in confusion and worry, the space between her eyebrows knitting slightly.

"I hope I'm not interrupting?" she asks tentatively, remaining motionless on the threshold.

"No, of course not. Is everything alright?" Lord Craven asks.

Colin catches the shiver in the man's tone and tries not to bristle again. For the past four hours, Archibald has done nothing except relive the horrors of his own past, regardless of anyone else and certainly regardless of _facts_.

"You can both come up, now." Cindy gives them a small smile, her eyes lingering on her husband. "Mary and Dickon wish for Colin to meet his godson. Richard."


	84. You Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone fights over holding Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Turtles, released in 1966.
> 
> This was a hard chapter to write because I am NOT a baby person. LOL.
> 
> ~BD

****

## You Baby

****

"It's my turn," Colin says crossly.

"It most certainly is not!" Cindy glares at him. "You just held him!"

"For all of thirty seconds, before you took him again. Come on, I want to hold him...!"

Mary mutters under her breath, "Until he starts crying, that is."

"And when he does," Colin replies, "I'll hand him over to his father, and he'll stop crying immediately. He always does! It's uncanny."

"If it's _anyone's_ turn," Lord Craven interrupts, "It's _my_ turn."

Everyone in the room turns to stare at the man, including Mrs. Medlock (who is setting out tea), Martha (who is stoking the fire in the hearth), and Jamison (who has just come in with a bottle of warm milk and a clean towel). After a long pause, Colin concedes, and Cindy, smirking that her husband hasn't gotten his way for once, gladly hands Richard to Lord Craven, who takes the baby and the bottle of milk with a calm expression.

With a smug look at his son, he says, "You look as though you thought I hadn't held a baby in my entire life."

"Yes well, if we're going to get technical, I can't imagine that you held me very much, to tell the truth."

Lord Craven ignores the remark. "The key, Colin, is to remain calm. You always get keyed up when you hold him, and so he begins to cry because he senses the change. When Dickon holds him, he senses serenity – and so he becomes calm. Really, you'd best learn that before you have children, otherwise they'll be crying nonstop."

"I'm not _that_ bad at it!" Colin protests hotly.

Mary laughs. "Aye, but tha is! Though I imagine," she adds, when her cousin looks right put out with her blunt statement, "when he's a young boy, he'll want t' play wit' thee quite a bit, because tha'll run about wit' him."

Cindy says sweetly, "So you've only five years to wait, Colin. I think you can manage that. Even if patience isn't your virtue."

"I'm going out t' th' garden," Colin complains, "if everyone's goin' t' tease so!"

Dickon smiles at him from across the room, where he's helping Martha add another two logs to the fire. "Tha'll learn how t' hold 'im soon enow, I'll warrant. He's a right patient baby t' tell th' truth – an' I've seen enow little ones t' know."

"Aye," Martha agrees, wiping her hands on her apron. "Much calmer'n Jane and Em! They were always cryin', seemed like! Mother, she didn' know wha' t' do wit' 'em most o' th' time! Little Richard's mun like thee, Dickon."

"He definitely _looks_ like Dickon." Mary smiles.

Dickon looks slightly flustered by this. "Aye, an' I was hopin' he would look more like thee," he says wistfully.

"The next one will, I imagine," Medlock replies, finishing the tea tray and turning to take the baby from Lord Craven. "He's finished, is he?"

"Yes, he is." Lord Craven hands him over. "He'll be wanting a nap, next."

"I'll put him down, shall I?" Medlook looks over her shoulder at Mary, who nods.

Martha is already on her feet. "I'll sit wit' him," she says cheerfully. "If tha doesn' mind, Miss."

"Not at all. Thank you, Martha."

When the two ladies exit the parlor, Colin smiles, despite the previous teasing. "Amazing how much the house has changed in just two weeks," he murmurs to himself, as his father joins Dickon by the fire, and Mary and Cindy help themselves to tea.


	85. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MINOR CHARACTER DEATH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the first "Thor" movie in the Marvel series.
> 
> Warning: Minor character death. It isn't violent, just a bit sad, and a part of life.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Letting Go

****

_January 1922_

It is Dickon who notices first, for Dickon has that sixth sense about him, which picks up on the things others do not immediately realize.

The servants' dining quarters are bustling with morning activity, but as his eyes sweep the room, it abruptly occurs to him that something is horribly, terribly wrong. His gut clenches and he leaves without a word to anyone, taking the stairs to the ground floor two at a time.

He finds Colin buried behind the morning's paper in the main dining room, and he ignores Mary's cooing at the baby and Cindy's cheerful request that he join them for breakfast.

He touches Colin's shoulder. "I need thee t' come wit' me."

Colin looks confused, but thankfully does not protest. He folds the paper and follows Dickon out of the room, assuring Cindy and Mary he will be back momentarily.

Dickon leads his friend down dimly lit corridors that are rarely used these days, past icy window panes showing snowy lawns, past drafty rooms that are closed off and unused. He wishes he could feel his fingers, but all he can feel is _cold_. Colin asks only once where they are going and, when he does not receive an answer, he falls silent and trusts Dickon as he did when he was a boy. For that, Dickon is thankful, for he isn't certain he trusts his voice.

He finally opens the door that leads to the servants' quarters, and takes Colin down the hall to the the far end. Only a few of the rooms are still occupied, and Dickon stops at the very last door.

Behind him, he hears Colin's sharp intake of breath. But before Colin can question him again, he murmurs, "He wasn' at breakfast. Nor yesterday, now I think on it."

And he does not wait for Colin's answer, for he knows Colin is struggling to think of something positive to say, and yet can't. Dickon twists the knob gently until he feels the latch click; he eases the door open and steps into the cold, dark room, going first because Colin has never seen death face to face before, and Dickon has.

For a brief moment he remembers the soldiers – the dead soldiers in no man's land and the ones on the sides of muddy, rutted country lanes: their eyes wide and glassy, their mouths partially open, their limbs at odd, unnatural angles.

But that is not the scene he faces now.

The body before him is lying in bed beneath a quilt, the soul having passed quietly in sleep. The eyes and mouth are closed, the gnarled hands rest on top of the chest that does not rise and fall. The cheeks seem hollow, the face deeply lined, and the hair more white than before; but it is a peaceful death and not a violent one, and it strikes Dickon strange that death can indeed be peaceful. He is sort of grateful for the realization, and he feels his shoulders relax as though a weight has fallen from them.

Behind him, Colin speaks, his voice faltering slightly. "He's... he's just sleeping, Dickon. He's probably tired these days. He'd be upset if we woke him. Let's go."

Dickon shakes his head once. "Colin."

He knows his friend is struggling, and he wonders how he can offer solace. But before he thinks of a way, Colin sighs heavily, and whispers, "We didn't even get to say goodbye."

"No. But he was old. An' he didn' suffer. An' he knows we loved him."

"Aye. Tha is righ'. Well. We'd best alert father. An'... an' Mary."

Dickon's fingers grow cold again, colder than before. Perhaps it is that thought which is the worst; _telling Mary_. He isn't certain how he will manage that, but he must. He is her husband, and that is his duty.

With trembling fingers, he gently takes the quilt from beneath the lifeless hands and pulls it over Ben's head.

"Aye," he whispers back. "We had."


	86. There She Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistress Mary has her way in an important matter, after much arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The La's, released in 1990.
> 
> ~BD

****

## There She Goes

****

Not for the first time has an argument broken out at Misselthwaite Manor, but Mrs. Medlock can't help but notice the participants haven't changed as much as she thought. Or at least, not in essentials, they haven't.

Mary Lennox Sowerby may be a wife and mother now, but she is still as stubborn as ever; there is the tiniest crease in her brow as she glowers at her uncle, arms crossed over her chest, resolute in wanting her way. Mrs. Medlock is forcibly reminded of the time the girl flew into Master Colin's room, shouting at him to stop screaming and having hysterics, stamping her foot like a woman and making everyone cower before her wake.

Her husband, on the other hand, is still as patient and calm as he ever was as a child. He stands behind her, rubbing his neck with his hand as though he would prefer not to be involved in the argument at all, his blue eyes pensive and wide. If he has a remark to make, Medlock thinks, it will be one of wisdom that practically outranks everyone else, though he is but head gardener and a commoner.

Colin is flushed and tall and full of life, but oh, always still the rajah that Mary so rightly labeled him when he was ten. He sides with Mary in this battle, and Medlock isn't certain which is worse: The times Colin and Mary side together, or the times they side _against_ each other. Regardless, heaven help Lord Archibald Craven, their opposition, for the both of them against him is nothing but an uphill battle.

Mrs. Medlock rather feels sorry for him, for he has likely changed the least of all of them. After Lilias died, he was always an odd mix of stubborn pride, firmly locked in the ways of the past, yet sometimes weak and lost and helpless all at once. As he sits behind his desk, facing Mary and Colin, he looks frail and old – it makes Medlock _feel_ old, for she is around his age herself; although her position in the household usually places her on the receiving end of Mary and Colin's demands, and she has been groomed to handle such better than Lord Craven. Sometimes, she feels as though she doesn't understand him at all, even after all these years.

Cindy Castor Craven is nearest to her, standing unobtrusively by the door to Lord Craven's study, looking grim and slightly annoyed. She doesn't wish to be a part of the argument at all, and when Colin demands she voice her opinion, she sharply informs him that she hasn't lived at Misslethwaite her entire life, nor is she as familiar with any of the people here as her husband and his cousin are. Therefore, she reasons, she does not have a voice in the discussion, nor does she particularly want a voice in the discussion. Colin looks quite put out by her statement, and Medlock can't help but think that the girl is as good for him as Mary is.

Poor Martha is as wide-eyed as ever, like a kitchen girl who has never seen the upstairs, still a bit rough around the edges though she has been upstairs in the house now for years. Her voice will never sound refined, for she has never mastered the art of speaking as well as Medlock has. She is terrified of entering the discussion because it isn't her place as a servant to do so, but if asked her opinion later, she'll be as honest and blunt as ever; frank and sincere because she has never learned the hard ways of the world or how to be cunning or calculating.

And in the end, Mary gets her way, as Mrs. Medlock rather expected she would, and the elderly housekeeper wonders if it isn't Mary who is the _real_ rajah of the family. The girl's voice has risen and her eyes are blazing with fire the way Colin's always do when he is excited or angry.

"It's _my_ garden!" she practically shouts, for the argument has taken that sort of nasty turn. "And I shall do with it as I please! You gave it to me when I was ten years old and it's _mine_! I see no reason why he can't be buried there! He never did like organized religion and he would be happier knowing he was in the garden, with the roses!"

Mrs. Medlock nearly snorts with suppressed laughter. Poor Ben Weatherstaff, she thinks wryly. He wouldn't even know what "organized religion" means, though she must agree with Mary on that point. The man rarely went to church and was crotchety and reclusive before he was forty. A church graveyard would likely be the last place he would want to be buried, truth be told. It is rather amusing, that Ben and Mary got on as well as they did, and he would probably be pleased to see her standing up for him.

Archibald tries to argue, once again, that the ground is frozen solid, for it is the end of January, and that even Lilias wasn't buried in the garden she loved so much. It would be easier to bury the man at the church, where they are more equipped to handle burials and such.

Mary's eyes narrow dangerously, and Medlock knows then that Lord Craven has lost.

"Aunt Lilias thought the world of Ben Weatherstaff. She would approve of him being buried in the garden. I won't have it any other way, Uncle. I'll dig the ground myself if I must!"

With that, she leaves the room – more calmly than she did when she was ten years old, at least walking instead of running out – but she still leaves a whirl of confusion about her just as she did back then. Archibald Craven looks as though a gale has blown over him and he isn't certain what happened, Colin is left to back up Mary, and Dickon slips out quietly to follow his wife, before her uncle can accuse him of not controlling her or taking his side in the argument.

As the younger man passes her, Mrs. Medlock says quietly, "She's taking it far better than I expected, really. I thought she'd be crying nonstop when she found out, but she took it as calm as I've ever seen! No tears or anything!"

"Aye," he replies in an undertone, smiling just slightly. "I'm grateful for that, I am. She's always surprisin' me like that. Tis a wonder, sometimes. But I suppose Mary knew better'n anyone he was old, an' ready t' go. I jus' wish th' ground wasn' frozen solid, I do, for I'll be th' one t' have t' dig!"

And as he moves down the hall towards the far end, Mrs. Medlock can't help but smile and think that out of everyone, perhaps Dickon has grown the most.


	87. The First Time It Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard gets into mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song from "The Great Muppet Caper".
> 
> ~BD

****

## The First Time It Happens

****

The roses are in full bloom again, and Mary is devoting her morning to weeding about them, though they are so thick in places that it is a bit difficult to complete the task. Such a wonder from when she first found the garden and thought they might be quite dead; now, they are so alive that they are taking over. Dickon will have to prune them back come late autumn, there is nothing else for it.

The sun is warm against her back and she hears the robin twittering somewhere in the far alcove, but a particularly stubborn weed beneath one of the roses requires most of her attention and she grunts slightly as she tries to yank it out of the ground.

She has almost succeeded when she hears her name. The voice is sharp and panicked; she sits up quickly, scratches her face on one of the thorns, and turns to find her husband hurrying across the lawn. When she looks to see what he's running towards, she realizes that it is Richard, using Ben's headstone to pull himself up to his feet. She huffs exasperatedly, while the baby looks at his father with wide blue eyes, confused as to why there should be any cause for fuss, and Dickon stops short of his son, suddenly not sure what to do.

"I though' he was nappin'!" he exclaims, looking back at his wife.

Mary blows a strand of hair out of her face in annoyance and gets to her feet. Richard is too much like Dickon for her to worry unnecessarily. He's six months old now, and he never cries when he wakes from a nap. So unless she's looking directly at him, it is often several minutes before she notices that he's awake, especially if they're in the garden and she's working about the flowers and trees. She already worries enough as it is, just being a mother, and it's impossible to stop...but sometimes, she has to make herself curtail her fears and let nature take her course. And so she replies shortly, "He was. But I suppose he woke up. And tha knows he n'ver lets me know when he does."

Dickon flushes, his eyes over bright in his irritation. "Is tha payin' _any_ attention to him? What if he starts chewin' on somethin', or –?"

She bristles slightly. "Wha' a thing t' say t' a mother! Aye, I am payin' him attention, Dickon Sowerby, an' I'll thank thee t' go back t' thy work for th' day, an' leave me t' mine! He's been usin' Ben Weatherstaff's headstone t' stand up for th' past two days, now. Tha's been t' busy t' notice, I suppose, but I 'ave, an' he hasn' hurt hisself yet!"

"But wha' if he topples into it?" Dickon looks like a boy, wide-eyed and worried. "It's stone, it'll scrape him up, it will –"

"Iffn' it does, he'll let me know at some point, I expect. But if I had t' guess, Ben's helpin' him. He made Colin stand and walk; he'll make Richard stand and walk. An' at six months! Such a wonder, but that's th' way o' things, though. Ben's a right meddlin' old codger, even in death."

Dickon gapes at her. Richard, meanwhile, looks up at him curiously, keeping one hand on the headstone for balance, and putting his fingers in his mouth to suck on them a bit.

After a long moment, his father sighs. "Mother... she says he's like me."

"He is. Quiet and unperturbed, and a little surprised that you're as protective as you are. I'm rather surprised by that too, actually."

"No more protective than tha is," he says darkly, frowning at her.

Mary feels a wave of fear again, because it's the truth, but she beats it down and tosses her hair behind her shoulder. "Aye, Colin said th' same thing b'fore he an' Cindy left for the States. We'll die o' worry, Dickon. Tha knows it, doesn' thy?"

Dickon picks Richard up, much to his son's frustration, and replies, "Thy uncle says it's part o' being a father or mother. I suppose he's right."

"Uncle Archie would know. Go on, take him back up to the manor and see if Martha can watch him, if you're so concerned about him here in the garden."

"Will you be up for tea?"

"No, not right now. I'm determined to get the weeds up before they choke the roses out."

"No chance o' that," Dickon mutters dryly, turning for the door again.

"An' tha can prune 'em come autumn!" she calls loudly after him.

Distantly, as the door swings shut behind him, she hears him complain in a low voice to the baby, "Always somethin', sithee?"

Mary turns and scowls at the roses, and the robin lands on the bush in front of her and eyes her beadily. She shakes her head and suddenly laughs. "He'd best prune the roses in a few months," she states to no one in particular. "They're getting out of hand."


	88. Ordinary Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone celebrates Richard's first birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Sarah McLachlan, released in 2013.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Ordinary Miracle

****

Mary watches the festivities with an odd sense of detachment.

Colin has spread presents across the dining table and wants to open them himself, even though he wrapped them and knows what is in all of them. Dickon is laughing at him, his smile radiant and bright, his arms folded lightly as he leans against the table. Uncle Archie smiles enigmatically from his usual seat; he is quiet as always, but especially as he gets older, and Mary has noticed this with a pang of sadness. Cindy, however, is as vibrant as she remembers – Colin's wife holds Richard, talking happily with him even though he isn't really talking back to her. His fingers are in his mouth as he glances uncertainly at the gifts all about, as though he thinks perhaps his Uncle Colin is a bit odd for buying so many.

"Oh, this one next!" Colin exclaims, grabbing a gift and snatching the paper off. "This is fantastic, this is –"

"It's probably something he won't be able to use," Dickon points out, nodding towards a couple of gifts that have already been opened (little boots that are still too big for Richard and a new trundle bed that won't go into use for at least another year).

"No, no!" Colin's eyes dance excitedly as he opens the box and pulls out a stack of books. "Children's books! We found them in New York on the way back over! These are wonderful, aren't they? Mary can read them to him! I bought several different ones, you know, so they'll last a while." He places them aside and grabs another present.

"And I'll read them to you, too," Cindy promises. She nuzzles Richard's cheek with her nose and giggles when he squirms slightly.

Martha steps into the room to announce dinner at that moment, but instead, she catches Mary's eye accidentally and her expression changes from cheerful to surprised to wary. She glances at the others, only to find them sufficiently engaged in entertaining Richard to notice her yet; so she shuffles over to her friend and says quietly, "Is tha alrigh', Miss Mary?"

Mary manages to nod slightly. Colin and Dickon are joking over the next gift – a little wagon.

Martha frowns skeptically. "Tha doesn' look alrigh'."

She forces a tiny smile and meets Martha's concerned gaze. "I was jus' thinkin'," she admits softly. "How fast a year goes by. Afore I know it, he'll be grown, he will." She blinks back tears. She should be happy on her son's birthday, but instead, she feels empty.  
Martha puts an arm around her shoulders and squeezes lightly. "Aye," she whispers. "Mother always said, she did, that that was th' wors' part o' it all. Watching us grow up." And, nodding sagely, she steps away from Mary and announces that dinner will be out shortly.


	89. Never Saw Blue Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Shawn Colvin, released in 2010.
> 
> I could only write about cooing over babies for so many chapters, and quite honestly, I really didn't want to write 40 chapters of baby fluff. (The author is about as "anti baby fluff" as it is possible to be, really).
> 
> Warning: Character Death. Depressing, meh, blah, sniffle, all that sort of thing.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Never Saw Blue Like That

****

_February 1923_

She finds Colin curled up like a cat in a deep window on the third floor, the curtains half-obscuring him to passerby.

Not, of course, that anyone is passing by down this dark, gloomy, shut-off corridor on the third floor of Misselthwaite, but that was probably part of his intention as well.

She pauses, not speaking right away, but glancing out of the windows at the sky instead.

It cannot make up its mind whether to be wispy, pale blue (the type of blue that heralds spring), or leaden gray (the type of gray that characterizes the bleak winters upon the moor). It is somewhere in between; probably, she thinks, because the seasons are somewhere in between.

Colin speaks first. His voice is quiet, but not as detached as he would like it to be.

"What is it, Mary?"

Mary hesitates before she climbs into the windowsill opposite him, drawing her knees to her chest and not caring if her stockings show, or even if her knees show, for that matter. If she imagines very hard, she can almost pretend they are children again – they are just hiding up on this corridor from Medlock, watching the rain drizzle down and wishing they could be out in the garden, instead. In a bit, Uncle Archie will find them, and smile, and tell them to return to their lessons.

But at the thought of her uncle, the wishful daydream curls away like tendrils of smoke.

She meets Colin's eyes and he looks away quickly, but not before she catches a glimpse of the slightly reddened rims.

Softly, she says, "Cindy is worried about you."

He curls his arms more tightly about his legs and goes back to keeping watch out of the window.

Mary tries again, her temper non-existent from fatigue and sadness. "So is Dickon. And so I am, Colin."

He looks miserable and dejected, and mumbles, "I'm sorry, Mary. I just wanted to be by myself for a while. Please forgive me."

"I suppose that's understandable. But it's almost dinner. You need to eat."

"I'm not very hungry." He leans his temple against the glass and draws his knees up, wrapping his arms about them..

"You still need to eat."

He does not respond to her second request, and Mary is just on the verge of deciding whether or not she should leave him be when he finally whispers, "It may sound silly, but... I think I should like some of Mrs. Sowerby's oatcakes. Do you think she would mind making me some? Just a couple, perhaps? I know she has other worries, but..."

Mary manages a small, watery smile. "No. I don't think she'd mind. I'll ask Dickon to ride over and ask her."

"Thank you, Mary." He still does not look at her. "It's a dreary sort of day, isn't it? As though it can't make up its mind."

"Aye," she whispers, watching a few white-ish clouds scuttle across what little blue she saw before, peeking through the mass of gray, and hiding it from view again. "Th' dreariest."

"It's how I feel though. It's as though the moor knows me inside and out. Tell Cindy I'll be down later. She'll understand."

"I daresay she will."

And Mary leaves him be, sitting on the window, and goes back downstairs through the empty, quite house, hating the way the stairs creak and the way the floorboards moan in places, for it seems as if the house itself is grieving. When only a couple of months ago, they were celebrating Richard's first birthday, and Colin was unwrapping all sorts of presents and Uncle Archie was dryly telling his son he couldn't imagine how Colin would spoil his own children. She'd never dreamed, not even a couple of weeks ago! that her uncle might not ever see his own grandchildren. How wretchedly horrible, and not at all fair. But then, she thinks sadly, life is rarely fair at all. Her own parents didn't live to see their daughter turn ten, let alone their first grandchild.

When she finally reaches the downstairs parlor, it is to find her husband, Cindy, Mrs. Medlock, Martha, John the footman, Mrs. Opal, and Jamison gathered together in an odd assortment. When she opens the door, they all turn towards her expectantly, and their faces fall slightly to see that she is alone.

Mary closes the door quietly behind her and faces her husband first. With a brave attempt at a smile, she says, "Does thy think tha mother t'would be willin' t' make him some oatcakes? He says 'tis wha' he wants th' most righ' now."

Dickon looks slightly surprised, but nods. "I'll ride out an' ask her, but I'm sure she wouldn' mind."

She touches his arm briefly as he hurries out of the door. Then she turns to Cindy, who is holding Richard, as though trying to distract herself with the baby.

When Mary stops beside her, Cindy whispers, "I understand how he feels, but I _don't_ understand why he's off hiding! I didn't hide! I was upset, but I didn't hide, Mary."

"I know. But," Mary sighs, "It's because he's a sulky sort of lad deep inside, no matter what else, and he always has been." 

"True enow," Martha says dolefully, rubbing her arms as though she is cold. "I wouldn't let it worry thee, Miss Cindy. He's always been tha' way." 

Cindy says nothing, and Mary doesn't know how to comfort her. She doesn't quite know how to comfort herself, even. But seeing Colin's grief is enough to give her strength to _not_ cry. She must be strong for her cousin, if nothing else, and she won't cry. 

Eventually, she takes a deep breath and says, "He'll be down soon. Let him be. He knows his father was old and he knows Uncle Archie wasn't in the best of health. The winter's been a bad one, too. It was a nasty cold. I'm surprised in a way it didn't happen sooner, even. So was Doctor Craven." 

A few of the servants nod in understanding, taking her words as a signal that they are dismissed, before filing out of the parlor back to their work, leaving Mary and Cindy and Richard alone. <

But even when it is just the three of them remaining, Mary still says nothing, and Cindy doesn't seem to expect her to. They exchange one look of understanding, of grief, and that is all.<


	90. Paint It Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin battles with himself and everyone else, and Susan Sowerby brings him back down to earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Rolling Stones, released in 1966.
> 
> Getting inside Colin's head when he's all dark is interesting, fascinating, fun, and a little creepy. I'm not quite done with him yet, but I do think his father's death would greatly affect him.
> 
> Also...I have never liked stories in which Colin acts superior and hateful to Dickon. They didn't strike me as that way in the novel. But as I wrote this chapter, Dark & Moody Colin's thoughts seemed to fly out before I can stop them, and next thing I knew, he'd popped off to Dickon. I can assure you they won't be falling apart as friends - Dickon is too sensible for that, and I intend to have them come to terms in the next chapter and make up, all that good stuff.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Paint It Black

****

He is regressing into his childhood again – back to a sullen, frightful boy with no regard for anyone or anything around him. The hateful boy who terrified his servants out of his own fear, who made his own life miserable as a result of his attitude.

He hates it, but as he scowls mutinously into the waiting grave, he finds that he can't help being surly and nasty and sad and depressed.

He has snapped at nearly everyone in the past few days, though not quite intentionally. He snapped at Medlock because she suggested they run an obituary in the London Times. Truthfully, he didn't want anyone besides family at this funeral, and he knew if they advertised the fact, all sorts of people would emerge, unbidden and unwelcome, out of the woodwork. But he probably should have thought of a nicer way to tell Medlock this than absolutely forbidding her to run the obituary, in that haughty, angry tone he's so good at using.

Then he snapped at Cindy because she sided with Medlock; she merely said it was only fair to his father's friends who mayn't wish to say goodbye, in her reasonable, calm tone. He didn't _want_ reason or calm at that moment, though.

Of course, when Cindy's eyes welled up with tears, Mary stepped in and snapped at him for snapping at Cindy, and so he snapped at Mary to leave him the hell alone, because she certainly wouldn't understand what it felt like to lose a father. Oh yes, it was untrue and cruel, but it gave him a nasty pleasure to say it just the same. Mary didn't cry like Cindy, but Colin was slightly afraid she mightn't hit him, judging by the look in her eyes.

Before she could retort, Martha entered the room, and he snapped at her simply because she was trying to be cheerful. He feels anything but cheerful and damn it all, Martha can grate one's nerves sometimes.

Then he snapped at Jamison for asking if he might like some supper, and he snapped at John for offering to drive him into Thwaite to visit the undertaker, and he snapped at Dickon for something he doesn't even remember.

For that, he got pulled into the hall by his upper arm (by God, that man had a tight grip for someone who'd broken so many bones in France – it was a wonder Colin's own arm wasn't bruised) and he was told quietly, firmly, and gently all at once to remember not to snap at those few people who loved him; those people who were still by his side despite everything else.

In his anger and shame, he snapped at Dickon a second time; he had the audacity to tell him he was only a gardener and to have more respect for his employer.

Dickon's face had taken on a hard, cold, stony look at remark - a look that rather frightened Colin, and suddenly Colin himself realized the gravity of his words – he _was_ , in fact, Dickon's new employer, because Archibald was dead. Startled and upset at this awful revelation, he'd stuttered the only heart-felt, sincere apology he'd given in the past day, before he disappeared up into the gloomy, ghostly attic for several hours, shamed into hiding. Then he realized no one was going to come fetch him, because more than likely, Dickon had informed everyone to leave him alone and let him come down when he felt like it. Sometimes, every once in a while, he finds he sort of hates Dickon, because Dickon is everything he is not, and everything he wishes he could be. Hunger eventually drove him out at nearly ten o'clock in the evening, and he discovered Cindy had gone to bed and cried herself to sleep, which made him feel nearly as bad as Dickon's talking-to and expressions had.

But there is so much more to it than the fact that he lost his father. The title of _Lord Craven_ has passed to him and _God_ , but it weighs heavily on his shoulders! He wonders if it weighed upon his father this heavily, and regrets that he never asked. He is barely twenty; he doesn't feel as though he is ready for this, and isn't certain he can manage Misselthwaite, when only six months ago he would have confidently boasted that yes, of course he could manage the household and servants. Then, when he looks at Cindy, he realizes she is now Lady Craven; when he looks at Mary and Dickon, he realizes they are only Mr. and Mrs. Sowerby, and he is horribly envious of what that means – less responsibility.

As he stares down into the grave in the churchyard, hardly listening to the pastor, he finds that he also sort of hates his father for dying on him, and he realizes his childhood exclamation of living forever and ever were only a little boy's dream. Didn't he realize that when Dickon went to war? He should have, but he can't remember whether he did or not. It should have hit home then, if at no other time, when his best mate was sent into the middle of a bloodbath! But no – it hits now, when they are lowering his father's coffin into the hole in the ground, beside his mother's grave, and he has the urge to turn and run.

And run. And run, and run, and never stop or come back... He wants to run until he runs out of breath, until he collapses on the moor from exhaustion. He twitches; Cindy grips his arm rather tightly, as though she knows what he is thinking, and the physical contact brings him back to the present. When he glances about him, he discovers his uncle is watching him keenly, and that pisses him off even more. No doubt within the next few days, the man will seek him out and ask if he's alright or not, and what will he say? _No, I'm not alright, and leave me the hell alone_ or _Yes, I'm perfectly fine, and leave me the hell alone_? Will he accuse Dr. Craven of wanting to kill him off to get Misselthwaite, or something equally as ludicrous? Will he alienate himself from all the members of his family and staff?

When the service ends and people shift and began to move, he finally finds his voice and curtly tells the others that he wants to be alone for a while. Cindy nods sadly and Mary takes her arm to walk with her to the car; Dickon shifts Richard (who is sleeping) to his other arm and Mrs. Medlock inclines her head politely. Within moments, he has his wish, and is standing at the foot of his parents' graves alone, with only the cold February breeze biting his ears and face.

He wants to shout and scream; he wants to throw a tantrum and scare everyone. He wants to collapse to his knees and cry so hard that he chokes from crying. It isn't fair, none of it is fair, and doesn't anyone _understand_ that?! His jaw and hands clench, he twitches...

And quite unexpectedly, a hand touches the middle of his back and he jumps, immediately startled and afraid. When he turns, he finds Susan Sowerby behind him.

She looks older than he remembers from his childhood and it strikes him that she, too, is aging. How has he not noticed? Is he really so self-centered?

"Dickon-lad said tha'd stayed behind," she whispers, holding the sleeve of his coat between her fingers. "Said thy wisht t' be left alone." She hesitates, then plunges on, "But I donna believe it, an' neith'r did Dickon-lad. Tha hates t' be left alone wit' thy thoughts – thy always has, Colin-dear. Tha becomes frigh'n'd when tha's alone in thy head, an' thy mun certainly donna needt' be alone righ' now."

Colin's lower lip trembles and the angry part of his brain tells him _don't cry_! _Tell her to leave_! A flash of his childhood bursts before his mind's eye; he is lying in bed in the dark and believes he has a lump on his shoulders, that he will die before he reaches the age of twelve, let alone twenty. The anger boils up like a volcano. A small, sane part of him _desperately_ tries to remind the angry part that he would be foolish and stupid to take his pain out on the only woman in the world who treats him like a mother, but he has to lash out or else he'll go crazy! No one understands that!

But then, before the anger can explode to the surface, Susan is wrapping her arms around him, slowly, but with a mother's strength, and she hugs him as a mother would, as someone who _loves_ him would.

And quite suddenly, Colin finds he has no energy whatsoever, and the sadness overtakes the anger all in a rush.

Without warning, he begins to cry.

He cries hard, so very hard, because he hasn't cried at all yet, because he wanted to be strong and in trying to be strong, he became ill-natured and mean and ugly towards those around him, when they didn't deserve his anger, and that makes him cry harder. His wife didn't do this to him when her father died, and he feels even worse. He is a horrible person, he really is.

Susan, in her infinite wisdom, sees right through him as she always does, and she holds him more closely.

"Tha's so young," she whispers. "But Colin-dear, donna let the bad magic in! Tha munn't! Tha's worked so verra hard th' past few years t' live th' good magic! An' I know thy head is full o' bad righ' now, an' it frigh'ns thee. But we all love thee, an' donna forget it."

He wraps his arms around her and cries harder. "I'm scared," he whispers back. "I'm so scared!"

"Wha' is thy afear'd o'?" she murmurs, rocking him back and forth by swaying slightly.

"I donna how t' run th' house!"

"Aye, tha does," she responds gently. "Tha's been helpin' thy father run it for a couple o' years now, hasn' thy?"

"I tho-thought I h-had... but I don' know tha' I really did! An' I donna how t' live wit'ou' m'father, an' –"

"Aye, tha does," she answers again, though much more somberly. "Tha lived wit'ou' him 'til th' age o' ten, doesn' tha remember?"

"Tha...tha was...different." His body seems to rack with sobbing and he hates it; he buries his face in her shoulder and holds on, needing an anchor to stay rooted to the ground.

"Not really, dear," she replies, stroking his hair. "No' really."

"An'...an' I said... th' mun horrible thing t' Dickon…" Perhaps this is what really upsets him; that he crossed an invisible line that he never should have crossed.

"Wha' on earth did tha say t' Dickon?"

"T-told him... I was... He only pulled me in th' hall, see..." Colin shivers. "He told me not t' take my anger out on everyone, an' he was righ', he was, but I was angry! An' I told him... t' mind his pl-place... because I was his employer..." He bursts into sobs again, angry at himself for crying and angry that he was so horrible to Dickon, Cindy, and Mary. He feels Susan shift slightly and he holds on, afraid to let her go, that she mightn't be angry with him too, for insulting one of her children, and he knows he has more to explain. "Then it occurred me," he splutters on, gripping her coat, "Tha I really am his employer now, an' that frightened me even more! Part o' me doesn' wan' t' be! He's my mate, tha knows! But he looked so angry at me... I told him I was sorry, so verra sorry... I meant it too, I did! I never should have said it! I _am_ sorry!"

Susan strokes his shoulder with her hand and smiles softly. "Ah, lad. Tha an' Dickon have been th' best o' mates since thee were children. But tha only spoke th' truth, in a way."

"No! Donna say that! It isn't true!" he cries angrily.

"Colin-love, it is true. Tha's master o' Misselthwaite now, and Dickon's thy head gardener, isn' he? Tha's Lord Craven now."

"I donna see him that way!"

"Maybe not, but it's still true. Still, tha probably should tell him how thy feels. He'll forgive thee. He's a good lad, always has been."

He keeps talking, like a child, because there's _so much_ he's afraid of, and he doesn't know whom else to tell. "I donna how t' be my father," he whispers, his body sagging slightly.

"Wha' a thing t' say! O' course tha's not thy father," she reminds him. "Tha's _Colin_. T'would be foolish t' try an' be thy father!"

His crying finally slows and he heaves a great sigh, then straightens up and gazes down at her sadly. She reaches up with cold fingers and wipes the tears from his cheeks, brushes his hair from his eyes, and gives him a watery smile.

"Tha's righ' handsome. Gets thy looks from thy mother, thy does."

He looks away from her. "I'm a horrible person."

She takes both his hands in hers. "Look at me, Colin-dear."

She waits until he does so, then continues gently, "Tha's lost thy father, after thy was so lucky t' get him back when thy was ten. Tha's not a horrible person. Tha's a good lad, an' tha loves thy friends. Thy could never tell me any different. Now, go tell tha friends tha's sorry, one at a time an' not all t'gether, see? They'll forgive thee. They'll help thee through this. Believe me, Colin. Do believe me."

He nods, like a child, and she releases his hands and wraps her arm around his waist to walk him to the gate of the churchyard. "When I lost Phil and Bennie, I thought I would die, too." Her voice is sad, wistful. "Took all I had, see, not t' be angry at everyone an' everything."

Sadly, he asks, "Does it ever go away?"

"No, lad." She steps away from him, to head back to her cottage on the moor, and shakes her head. "Tha never forgets someone tha loved. Th' pain becomes a dull ache over time, but it never quite goes away. Tis a bit different losing a child than a father, but I know th' pain is still there. I lost my parents when I was only five an' twenty. Will tha be al'right t' go back t' the manor by thysen? Does thy want me t' walk wit' thee?"

He pauses. "No. I should think about what I'm going t' say t' th' others."

She nods. "Then be a good lad, an' donna dwell in tha head mun. Tha's got too much t' live for."


	91. Carry That Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin apologizes to Dickon and gets some advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Beatles, released in 1969.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Carry That Weight

****

Dickon inhales the sharp, cold air of late winter as he steps out of the kitchens and onto the stoop, leaving behind the gossiping servants with their tea and hot ale. The wooden door closes with a soft snap, and the wind bites at his ears. He digs his hands into his coat pockets – the coat Colin gave him on his first Christmas back home – and he finds he is grateful for the silence of the outdoors.

He hopes his mother has talked some sense into Colin. She is the only person, aside from his wife, who can do so, and since Colin wouldn't listen to Mary the day before, Susan is their only hope right now. A worried feeling needles within his chest. He knows it is difficult for Colin to lose his father, and he can forgive his friend because of that. Death is a vicious beast that doesn't always attack outright, but rather worms into one's brain with nasty, well-placed, spidering sorts of thoughts that one wouldn't normally think of, turning one quite sour. Dickon knows this only far too well, and he is surprised to find that for once, he can appreciate the unpleasant experience of the war; otherwise, he might not have been able to forgive Colin so easily for the biting words his friend has been dishing out.

He moves down the paths aimlessly, wondering whether he should work in the vegetable gardens or check the secret garden. He stops at a junction on the path and gazes about at the grounds – crocuses have started pushing up along the borders of the paths, ready to unfurl, and he wishes it were spring already.

As he turns to move on, the Master of Horse rounds the corner from the stables, and nods politely to him.

"Horses doin' well?" Dickon asks out of courtesy.

"Aye, they are." The man pushes his cap back and glances over his shoulder. "I tell thee tho; Mester Colin is a righ' peculiar lad, ain't he? Always has been, an' I know Lord Craven jus' died, but he is mun def'ty peculiar."

"Why's tha say that?"

"He's off in th' stables, tha's why. Told me he'd finish feedin' the horses an' would brush them down. Gave me th' rest o' th' afternoon off!" The man shakes his head. "Never heard o' a Lord wantin' t' do servants' work, exceptin' fer Mester Colin. Well, so be it. Iff'n he's given me th' day off, I could use a pint. Want t' join me, Dickon-lad?"

Dickon shakes his head. "No, but thank thee. I've some things t' tend t'."

"Verra well then. Donna stay in th' cold too long. 'Tis bitter out t'day."

"Aye, it is."

Dickon waits until the Master of Horse has disappeared around the next hedge before he immediately changes direction and heads for the stables. The door is slightly ajar and he slips in, catching sight of Colin's bare head over one of the stalls. His friend is facing away from him, slowly brushing down one of the huge draft horses used to pull the wagons, plows, and sleighs.

It strikes Dickon that even though Colin is quite tall himself; the horse is massive and makes Colin look small in comparison.

He sighs and begins walking down the middle of the barn. "Wha is thy doin'?" He asks wearily, as he comes closer and stops in front of the horse.

Colin doesn't look up, but his mouth turns down slightly. "Tendin' th' horses. Wha' does it look like?"

"Tha's stable hands for that, thy knows."

Colin merely shrugs and continues his task. "I want t' do it."

"Th' servants'll be talkin', Colin," he says gently. "Not for the mester o' th' manor t' be brushin' horses an' th' like."

"Maybe I don't care if they talk."

"Tha should care. Tha's Lord Craven now."

"Maybe I don't want t' be Lord Craven," Colin says, his teeth gritted. "Did _that_ ever occur t' anyone?"

Dickon can't help but smile sadly at this. "Not a question o' wha' thy wants, though. Tha's Lord Craven regardless. Canna be helped. If I could strip thy title away from thee t' make thee happier, I would. But I canna. I'm only a gardener, not the King o' England, no matter how Mary plays chess."

The currycomb pauses in its endless repetition, and after a long moment, Colin whispers, "I'm so scared. Doesn't even make sense, does it? But I am. Thy mun think me a coward."

"I donna think tha's a coward at all. Bein' scared is natural."

"Years ago," he says slowly, running his hand over the horse's neck, "I thought perhaps when I got well, father would live forever. I know that was childish, and I know that no one lives forever, but I did think he might've lived a bit _longer_."

"Aye. I know wha' thy means."

"Do you?" Colin asks skeptically.

Dickon pauses, reaching out to touch the horse's nose, feeling the hot, damp breath blow against his palm. "Aye. Many a young man died on th' fields o' France an' Belgium an' Germany, Colin. I sometimes wonder why they had t' die. They were my friends, some o' 'em. Seemed they should have had a long life, t' die peaceful-like at home wit' thy children an' gran-children around 'em. Not in th' mud an' wire in No-Man's Land."

Colin falls silent, and after a few moments, he begins brushing the horse down again – long strokes across the muscular haunches and sturdy back.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispers. "I didn' mean t' say such awful things t' everyone. Especially not t' thee."

"I know tha didn' mean it."

Colin shakes his head, his expression hurt and worn. "No. I didn' mean it, but it still hurt thee. An' thy's my best mate. I'm such a bloody awful prat, sometimes."

"I canna say I took it thee too seriously, t' tell thee th' truth." Dickon takes several steps towards the ladder to the loft, and begins to climb. "I knew thee was feelin' righ' bad, wit' thy father's death an' all. I knew thee would come back t' thy senses at some point. Thy's a good lad, truly."

By the time he's in the loft, Colin has slipped out of the stall, and Dickon begins to fork hay over the rails and into the manger.

"Did you ever feel you'd go crazy in your head, during the war?" Colin asks seriously, leaning on the ladder and watching him.

"Aye. Sometimes." Dickon does not elaborate.

They are silent again, until the manger is full and Dickon climbs down. Then, Colin sighs heavily and murmurs, "I'm not sure what I should do next."

"Thy'll have t' go through th' estate, I imagine. Mun be a lot o' work. Probably take a couple o' years. Didn' it take that long t' go through Cindy's father's estate?"

"Aye." Colin's brow furrows, as though he hasn't quite thought of this.

"Thy'll probably have t' stay here, at Misselthwaite, t' soart through everything. An' decide if thy wishes t' keep it."

At this, his friend jolts and stares at him in horror. "Of course I'll keep it!" he bursts out indignantly. "Is that what's going around the servants' hall, that I may _sell_ it?"

" _No_ ," Dickon states patiently. "But it is a huge estate, Colin. Takes a lot o' work -"

"It doesn't matter! I still won't sell it! I'll sell the townhouses first!"

"Tis outdated, Colin. A lot o' th' gentlemen are installin' electricity in their homes now. Thy'd have t' make some changes here, iffn thy wishes t' keep the manor. It'd take a bit t' wire it all, does' thy think?"

"Perhaps." Colin's face is flushed now, and his eyes are burning with determination. "I'd best go to father's study and review his finances, hadn't I?"

"Aye. And thy'd best ask Cindy for her help. She's feelin' right left out, I imagine."

Colin winces. "Aye. Thy's probably right. I'll do that."

"Tell thee what. Tomorrow morning, thee an' I'll ride out over th' moor on a couple o' horses, early-like. Will do thee good t' get some air an' wind. Clear thy head a bit."

For the first time since he has entered the bar, Colin gives him a small, faint smile.

"I'd like that. Thank thee."


	92. Sunday Morning Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dickon and Colin ride across the moor and discuss Misselthwaite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Johnny Cash, released in 1969.
> 
> Just a random side note: by this point in writing the story, I'd started watching Downton Abbey, which gave me some additional inspiration.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Sunday Morning Coming Down

****

They haven't done this in a long time – ride.

The wind stings Colin's face as Rajah's hoofs fly beneath him through the dead brown grass. Beside him, Dickon is low over Jack's neck, his brow furrowed in concentration.

It feels good, riding like this. It feels as though the cold wind is sweeping cobwebs and darkness from Colin's mind, and blowing life back into his brain. It feels like it would be okay to let a few tears slip out, because he could blame it on the wind and the chill in the air, instead of his emotions, and Dickon would understand and not say anything else about it.

They ride until the horses are lathered, and then Dickon brings Jack to a trot and slides easily off the horse's back to lead him to a nearby stream on the wildness of the moor. Colin does the same. While the horses drink, neither man says a word, but they watch the sun creep over the edge of the horizon.

"Tis amazin'," Dickon murmurs, "tha' each new day is a gift. All brigh' an' new."

Colin says nothing for a bit, but watches as gold and pink stain the brown and icy moor. Finally he replies, "I went through the finances yesterday evening with Cindy, after I made up with her. It is much as I expected. There is money available, and the house needs to be updated. I'll contact someone in London next week about electricity. I cannot believe father didn't do it sooner, really. I always thought it was a novelty, coming home to a house with candles and gas lighting, but it's really outdating."

Dickon rubs his hand down Jack's neck while the horse noses at the water. "Eh. Not too surprisin'," he says sensibly. "Thy father wasn' fond o' change."

"No. He wasn't. And Misselthwaite _must_ be changed. Electricity, and a thorough cleaning. The staff was reduced after the war, but we can get on with what we have. I should like to ask you..." Colin trails off, hesitating, and he feels Dickon's eyes on him.

"Ask me what?"

"If you would take on duties additional to being head gardener. If you would help me manage the estate."

"Ah, thy doesn' need me for that," Dickon replies easily. "Tha's got Mary and Cindy for tha' sort o' thing. They're better at numbers an' figures than I am."

"Perhaps, but you have more common sense sometimes. Don't tell Mary I said it, though."

"I'm a commoner, Colin. Thy knows tha'. Wouldn' look proper for me t' help thee wit' th' estate."

"Who would care?" Colin looks at him wearily. "The servants? We know they talk; that's a fact of life. I need help, and I don't want someone I can't trust doing this sort of thing. Best to keep it in the family." He hauls himself back into Rajah's saddle. "Well?"

Dickon sighs, and looks conflicted. "Let me think on it, will thee?"

"If you wish."

"Aye, I do." Dickon pulls himself back onto Jack, for he has no saddle, and they began to ride back to Misselthwaite in quiet, with the sun warming their backs.


	93. Could It Be Another Change?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martha is superstitious and Medlock chastises her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Samples, released in 1989.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Could It Be Another Change?

****

The new switches throughout the house are a novelty to Martha, who has never seen them before. She has watched the work on Misselthwaite for the past two weeks, but she is still edgy whenever anyone flips one of those switches and the room lights up with what she considers "unnatural light".

"But why?" Mary eventually asks her, surprised to learn that Martha jumps violently whenever anyone flips a switch. "All of the grand homes have electricity these days, Martha. Misslethwaite is quite behind the times, really. Even some a couple of the shops in Thwaite have electricity."

Martha wrings her hands a bit, and glances at her nephew, who is delighted with the sudden, dazzling display of light in the dining room. It makes the crystal and the silverware sparkle, far more than candlelight, and he claps his hands and points to the table eagerly.

"Mester Colin," Martha begins, looking away from Richard and nervously up at the new chandelier instead. "He says wha makes th' ligh' come on is electric'y. Like lightnin' from th' sky! Lord, but it does sound dangerous! Wha' if it burns th' house t' th' ground, miss? Lightnin' is so unpredictable, like."

Medlock enters the dining room at that moment and glares in annoyance at Martha. "If you keep talking so foolishly, you can never hope to become a lady's maid or a house keeper, Martha! _Really_! Burn the house to the ground indeed!"

"But donna th' ligh's frigh'en thee, Mrs. Medlock?" Martha implores, her mouth turning down in worry.

"Nonsense. I completely agree with Miss Mary. It is high time Misslethwaite was wired for electricity, and I'm glad Master Colin has done it. The candles and gas lighting were more of a fire hazard than this, I assure you! Why, it's a wonder the house didn't catch fire before the change. Now get on with thee – dinner's to be served soon! Tell Jamison and John to hurry up. Master Colin wants to see their new uniforms. I hear he wants to have a dinner party soon, to show off the new lights. That will be more of a change than the lights, I can promise you that. And when you finish, you can come back and take the baby to the nursery."

Martha nods and scurries out of the room, shying away from the doorframe, next to which is the offending light switch.

Mary sighs and shifts Richard. "Poor Martha. She does try hard, Mrs. Medlock. But I suspect it does take some getting used to, especially when she's lived her whole life in a cottage on the moor."

"She's _not_ lived her whole life on in a cottage on the moor; she's lived here the past fifteen years. She came to the household shortly before you arrived," Medlock replies tartly.

"Well, it's still hard for her. She's never been beyond Thwaite. I suppose she and Dickon are much alike – he's not fond of liners and automobiles, or planes. But the world is changing, and we must change with it. There is no escaping that."

"No," Medlock agrees. "Sometimes, I feel as though I'm getting too old for the changes. But this is one change I'm glad for."


	94. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colin and Mary good-naturedly argue, as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by Axwell & Ingrosso, released in 2014.
> 
> ~BD

****

## Something New

****

One thing that particularly annoys Colin about his father was the lack of socialization the man exhibited. Friends and acquaintances had never visited Misselthwaite under Archibald's tenure, not even after Colin learned to walk and live. The simple fact was that Lord Craven refused to welcome visitors to his ancient mansion because he was self-conscious about own, slightly-humped appearance. Colin didn't realize the reasoning when he had been a young child and teen, but the more he dwells on it as an adult, the more sense it makes.

Back then, Colin had been eager to escape his room and embrace life, to the point that he overcame his fear of being "looked at" by others. But his father never overcame that same fear in himself. If there was to be any socialization for Colin and Mary during their formative years, it was to be in London, with Lord Craven's very few acquaintances, and that was the extent of it.

However, Colin intends to change that. Misselthwaite has been wired and the electric lights now dazzle in each room. The mansion has been cleaned from top to bottom; a process that took two months solid. The lawns have been trimmed and the gardens are in top form, and as the several new maids and footmen scurry about to make sure that everything is in proper place, Colin finds himself arguing (yet again) with Mary.

"I don't see why you won't stay! Several of our acquaintances have been asking about you, and they'll be here tonight!"

Crossly, Mary snaps, "You know perfectly well why I won't stay for dinner, so do stop asking."

"But things are changing –"

Cece interrupts. "Things haven't changed _that_ much, Colin. Not yet. Not all of your acquaintances would understand Mary's decision to marry Dickon. It's best to ease them into the idea slowly."

"But Dickon is helping me with the estate! He's already agreed to help me manage it; I'm only waiting on the formal paperwork from the barrister's office to finalize the whole thing!"

"Cindy is right, Colin. The whole matter is something best explained to your friends slowly. And getting them to understand that you've made a common gardener a co-manager of a massive estate is the easy part! Getting _Dickon_ comfortable with the whole notion of intermingling with the upper class is another matter entirely. He doesn't even own a set of tails, and –"

"I said I would buy him a couple of sets and he can borrow mine until –"

"Oh do shut up and listen to reason, Colin! He won't feel comfortable in them! He's never even worn tails! You'll have to ease him into that, too! You always rush headlong into things. I approve of what you've done with Misselthwaite, bringing it up to date, but other things must be taken a bit slower!"

"Mary is perfectly right." Cece straightens Colin's cravat before he can argue further. "Have some patience for once in your life."

Hotly, Colin retorts, "I _am_ patient!"

Mary snorts most uncouthly, and Cece rolls her eyes.

"You can't always have your way, Colin," Mary finally says, though quite waspishly. "I hope your dinner party goes well tonight, even if I won't be there." She pauses at the door and adds sympathetically, "Cindy, the only reason I am sorry not to attend is that I won't be present to help ease the burden off of you. I do hope you'll forgive me."

Before Colin can complain, Cece says, "There is nothing to forgive! I understand, even if my husband does not."

"I _do_ understand!" Colin blurts, furiously. "But I just think –"

"That's just it, Colin – you _aren't_ thinking. There are no buts to this conversation!" Mary storms out of the room, intent on taking the servant's stairs to the basement level so she can leave without being seen in case any of Colin's friends arrive early.

"And we'd best get into the main parlor," Cece reminds him. "So John can answer the door properly."

As if on cue, John enters and nods to the pair of them. "Master Colin," he says professionally, for he has taken on the duties of Head Butler in place of Pitch, who died several years ago, "As soon as your guests arrive, I'll show them into the parlor. And I'll announce dinner at seven o'clock. Jamison and Fredrick will be serving."

"How is Fredrick working out?" Colin asks seriously, for hiring new staff for Misselthwaite is one of his latest works in progress, and it has been no easy task.

"He seems to be doing quite well, sir. He came from over near Leeds, having worked in a grand house before the war. Medlock has been watching him carefully, but everything seems in order."

"Excellent." Colin sighs and looks at his wife, who is dressed in the latest fashion. "Well, shall we?"

"Yes, and don't be such a rajah," Cece reminds him. "I daresay your friends from London will be whispering behind their hands all night at the fact the house is now open to guests, so don't make it worse."

"I do believe you and Mary are ganging up on me," he grumbles.

"Which is exactly as it should be." Cece smiles, and she leads him into the decadent parlor.


End file.
